


The Spark and the Wolf

by alexnicolebender



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Hurt Stiles, Kind of Good Peter Hale, M/M, Scott is a Bad Friend, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Surprise Characters - Freeform, We Don't Like Scott Mccall Here, season 1 rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexnicolebender/pseuds/alexnicolebender
Summary: "You think power like that was going to come out on it's own? I'm the spark that lit your fire, sweetheart."Peter had always know that Stiles wasn't quite human. And it wasn't a completely selfless act when he decided to gift him with the bite that would reveal his full potential.





	The Spark and the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I had the great opportunity to work alongside the lovely alien-from-outerspace from Tumblr! It was so much fun to create this, and to see them put what I wrote into drawings.  
> I hope you like this, some editing may happen in the future, and this will be continued!
> 
> I did not go into depth with Stiles' powers in this, but I will expand on that in the next part!

Stiles shuts his bedroom door behind him with a wince. He quickly wipes away at his wet, amber colored eyes, ridding them of the tears pooling in them. He absolutely lothes lying to his father, but there was no way he could have told him the truth. Yet, now his father refuses to even look at his own son in the eyes, he does not believe the lie he told, but what more could Stiles have done? His father would not have believed the truth either, and at least his father will be safe, will be out of the supernatural business that takes place in the small town.

 

The boy shakes his head, willing himself to let go of the unwanted thoughts that are creeping in, the ones that seem to always be there nowadays. He slowly, and very carefully shuffles to the bathroom, shuking his shirt off along the way. He turns on the light, and takes a deep breath before looking up into the mirror, not knowing what he will see, not knowing the actually extent of the damage done at the hands of Gerard. He gasps as he sees what his chest looks like, his face is not that bad, the large bruise covering his cheek being the only wound there, but his chest, he is glad that his dad only saw his face, because there was no way to explain this. There are dozens of cuts all over his chest, and midsection, some are shallow and small, while others, the ones that were still bleeding, were deep, large, and very painful. Just by looking at them Stiles can practically feel the knife being dragged down various places on his chest and stomach, can feel the whip falling onto his skin over, and over again, seeming almost never ending.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut before looking over his sides. He feels tears spring to his eyes once more as his eyes trace over the small burn marks from the electric cattle prods, the finger shaped bruises on his hips, some trailing around his sides and to his back. He can still feel the cattle prods come in contact with his sides, the shocks, the burns, seemingly never ending. He can still feel the large hands holding him in place, never letting up even when his cries went silent, and he could barely breathe. He tightly closes his eyes, not being able to stand the sight of the finger shaped bruises, not being able to even think of what they did to him, of what they… _took_ from him, what he will _never_ get back.

 

The tears fall down his cheeks, and he furiously wipes them away, not wanting to cry anymore, not wanting to be weak again. He takes catalogue of the cuts, bruises, burns, and some wounds that he does not know where they came from, or what they were, covering both arms. He takes another deep breath before pulling open one of the drawers, and pulls out a small mirror. Before he can turn around and hold up the mirror to see his back, he hears a soft _thump_ come from his bedroom. He drops the mirror on the counter, his heart beats faster, abnormally, and his breaths come out faster.

 

Logically he knows that it could not be Gerard or one of his men, but after going through what he just did tonight, all he can think of is that they are here to finish the job, just like they said they would, that they were going to take him again. Hands squeezed into fists, and chest heaving up and down, he slowly, and quietly walks towards his bedroom. Yet, before he can make it past the threshold, he hears a familiar voice call out to him.

 

“Stiles, it’s just me.”

 

Without missing a beat, Stiles lets out the breath he did not know he was holding in, and he walked into his dimly lit room. Peter was standing in front of his open window, his hair moving slightly due to the light wind moving in through the window. Stiles walks over to his light switch, and switches it on. He misses the way Peter’s eyes flash red as he takes in the slashes, bruises, burn marks, and deep lacerations covering his pale back. Stiles turns around, when a low growl escapes Peter’s lips, and he slowly moves halfway across the room, now limping due to a particularly bad injury on his right leg, right next to his knee. He looks down at the wound, and sees that it is bleeding again, blood now running down past his knee, and onto his shin.

 

“Stiles.” Peter says softly.

 

Peter watches as this look passes over the boys face, he cannot interpret what that look means, but right now that is not what matters most. His eyes trace over every mark, every cut, bruise, burn, covering Stiles’ body, fangs threatening to lengthen with each new injury he comes across. He saunters closer to the boy, stopping a few steps away from him, not wanting to push him too far, knowing that it would not help the matters at hand, that it would not help what he wanted, _needed_ , to do. Peter breathes in the young mans scent, the normally rich, oaky, and scent of pine needles is overpowered by panic, pain, anger, sorrow, and defeat, and Gerard and his men. He makes an aborted move to go closer to the boy, but the answering flinch backwards that he receives is enough to stay where he is, enough for him to force himself back a few steps to the queen bed, and sits down.

 

“Did Gerard do this?” Peter asks, even though he already knows the answer.

 

“Do what, Peter?” Stiles replies softly, never looking up from the floor.

 

Peter scoffs, “You know what, dear boy.”

 

“You already know the answer, so what do you actually want, because I know you’re not here to check up on me.” Stiles sneers, finally looking up from the floor.Peter is taken aback by Stiles’ tone, usually the boy is never like this with him, Scott for sure, but never Peter.

 

He stands up, and stalks over to the boy, ignoring Stiles’ move to back away from him. He stands right in front of him, and looks down at the boy, taking in the tears pooling in his eyes, and the grimace as he looks up and meets Peter’s gaze. Peter has never seen the boy this defeated before, whether it is from the torturing from the elder Argent, or the fact that the McCall boy and the rest of his little ragtag followers did not believe him when he was one-hundred percent _correct_ the entire time, all Peter knows is that he _never_ wants to see this boy like this again. He wraps a hand around the boys bicep and gently pulls him down onto the bed, getting him to relieve some of the pressure on his injured leg. The corner of his lips curl up slightly as Stiles yanks his arm out of his grasp.   

 

“You know, you usually don’t hate me this much, sweetheart.” Peter says, earning himself a glare from the boy.

 

“Well, I think I’m entitled to some hatred today.”

 

Peter hums in agreement, “Yes, you were just tortured, pushed aside by everyone, and no one believed you.”

 

He watches as the boys hands close into fists, and his eyes squeeze shut, “If you’re here to give me a recap of the night, or to tell me I’m no longer in the pack, you can leave. I don’t want to hear any of it.”

 

He looks over at the boy once more, he is now looking down at his shaking hands, and sitting stock still. Peter knows his comment may have been too much, but he cannot, he _will not_ , take it back. He knows that he now has to tread lightly, he does not want to ruin this opportunity that has landed in his lap, thanks to McCall and the others, and Gerard. Peter sits in silence, thinking about how to approach the situation in the best way possible, in a way that will give the best outcome, in a way that will give him what he wants, what he has always wanted.

 

“Stiles, I am not here to do any of that, I’m here to make sure that you are alright.” Peter watches the boy roll his honey colored eyes before looking up at the older man.

 

“Yeah okay, why are you really here?” Stiles asks, giving Peter his full attention.

 

Peter locks eyes with the boy in front of him and asks, “Why did you really reject the bite? I know that you were lying when you said you did not want to be like me, but if you had accepted you would not be in this situation, you know that right? You would not be in so much pain sweetheart.”

 

He lets Stiles think for a few moments, watching as the boy opens and closes his mouth a few times before saying, “First of all, stop with the endearments, and I was not lying, I really did not want to be like you, and I’m pretty sure the bite would not have been able to get rid of the nightmares I am no doubt going to have.”

 

Peter nods slowly, and turns away from Stiles, to grab the first aid kit he knows is underneath the boys bed, and hands it over to Stiles. The boy looks over at Peter, but does not say anything, other than a soft ‘thank you’, and opens up the small box to pull out everything he will need. Peter ends up helping him get his wounds cleaned up in the bathroom, not being able to listen to the painful groans the boy kept emitting. As they stand in the bathroom, Peter working on his back, Peter glances up in the mirror, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the finger shaped bruises on the boys hips.

 

“Stiles…” Peter had tried to keep the growl out of his voice, but it must not have worked with the way that Stiles’ head shoots up.

 

Stiles follows where Peter is looking, and he straight away tenses up and pulls away from the man. He walks back into his bedroom, not wanting to feel Peter staring at him like that anymore. He quickly pulls on a shirt, face screwing up in the process, because of the pain. He goes over to his bed, and sits down again, pillowing his head on his hands. He closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He can hear Peter putting away the supplies they used, and then it just goes silent, the only sounds being Stiles’ breathing.

 

Back in the bathroom, Peter finishes putting away the bandages and other items that they used, and closes the lid of the kit. He looks into the mirror, and sees that his eyes are red, and his fangs are fully lengthened. He cannot stand what they did to Stiles, what the did to _his_ boy. He cannot stand the fact that they even _dared_ to touch him. He takes a few deep breaths, matching them with Stiles’, who seems to be doing the same thing as Peter. He watches as his fangs shorten, and then disappear, and as his eyes flash red once, twice, and then transform back into their normal blue. He straightens up, and pulls his shoulders back, before he saunters into the bedroom.

 

He sees Stiles look up, and open his mouth, but before he can say anything, Peter cuts him off by saying, “Dear boy, if you would have just accepted the bite you would have been _strong_ enough to stop them, but yet you refused me.”

 

He watches as Stiles visibly flinches back, because of his words, but he simply does not care anymore. He needs the boy to just listen to him now. He walks over to the bed and sits down next to Stiles. The boy makes a move to get up, but he grabs his arm, as gently as he can, and pulls him back down. He makes sure that Stiles is not trying to get up anymore, before he starts talking again.

 

“I can still give you the bite, Stiles. You will be strong, and you will have a pack, a _real_ pack, not like the one McCall has. One that will take care of you, protect you, love you, and be your family and friends, one that will always listen to you, and believe you. You will never feel weak again, and you will be able to protect those that you care about, which is all that you’ve ever wanted to do.”

 

Stiles has no idea what he is feeling right now, all higher thinking has just fled the building at this point. Peter comes in being somewhat decent, and then helps him with his injuries, and now is talking about the bite. He looks over at the man in question, to see Peter already staring at him, as if waiting for an answer. Stiles watches with wide eyes as Peter stands up, and pulls him up with him, being mindful of the wounds on his arms. He lets go of an arm, but keeping one hand wrapped around right below his wrist. Stiles gasps as Peter raises the arm up to his mouth, exactly like the night in the garage.

 

Peter looks down at the boy, his wrist right in front of his mouth, and asks, “Do you want the bite, Stiles?”

 

Stiles has to hold in another gasp, and he nearly yanks his wrist out of the man’s grasp, before he actually thinks about what Peter has said. He will never be weak again, he will have a family, friends, people who will listen to him, and love him, and he will finally be able to protect those he cares about; he will have everything that he has always wanted, and be everything he has always wanted. Stiles does not think he will be able to get his voice to work right now, so he simply nods his head, not once looking away for the man in front of him.

 

Stiles does not think he has seen Peter smile like that since the night of the winter formal. He has half a mind to be scared about what that smile means, but for some reason he feels not one ounce of fear, because no matter how off the rails Peter goes, he would never hurt him, which has been proved time and time again. His heart starts beating faster as Peter’s eyes change from their normal blue color to red, and his fangs lengthens.

 

Peter listens as the boy’s heart races, and as his breathing picks up. He knows he should probably ask Stiles if he is sure, but he does not want to give the boy a chance to back out, not when he is so close to getting what he has always wanted. He raises the wrist in his grasp, never looking away from the boys face from the boys honey eyes, so close to his own face that his lips are just a hair's breadth away. He raises the lithe, pale wrist just a hair closer to his slightly parted lips. He hears Stiles swallow loudly, his nerves beginning to show themselves even more. That one small movement, drew Peter’s whole hearted attention to the pale expanse of neck _right there_ . He can hear, and _see_ the boys pulse racing, maybe he would even be able to smell if he was closer. He glances between the wrist in his large hand, and the lovely, _lovely_ , neck just calling his name. Peter tightens his grip on Stiles’ wrist, to the point of being painful, causing the boy to wince. He hears a questioning sound leave the boys plush lips as he pulls the boy closer, giving him better access to his neck. He feels more than hears Stiles’ breath pick up, not knowing where things are now going, not knowing that Peter has changed his mind, changed the destination of the bite. He leans in closer to the boy, bringing his face down to the delicious neck, now practically yelling for him.

 

Peter’s eyes slip close and he takes a deep breath as his lips first come in contact with the smooth skin. He breathes in the boys scent, before pressing the smallest, most chaste, of kisses upon the skin before him. Not wasting another second, he opens his mouth, and bites down hard on Stiles’ neck, sinking his fangs in deep. He savours the tangy taste of the boys blood rushing into his mouth for a few moments, before releasing the boys neck and pulling back. He only moves back a step, maybe even just half a step, to better see the bite. He lets go of the boys wrist, finally relieving Stiles of the painful grip. Peter raises a gentle hand, and wipes away some of the blood, threatening to fall onto the boys shirt. Then, he lifts the hand to his mouth, and licks the blood off, earning a disgusted noise from Stiles.

 

“It’s already taking, you should be newly turned within the next few hours, maybe even the next hour.” Peter says, taking in the no longer bleeding bite. It does not look all that bad, it looks a lot better that what McCall’s had.

 

Stiles raises a shaking hand to his neck, covering up the bite, blocking it from Peter’s intense gaze. Stiles feels confused as to why Peter did not bit him on the wrist, he was holding it in his hand. What had changed, what had made him change his mind? Stiles opens his mouth to ask, to ask what significance there was in biting his neck. Yet, he quickly changes his mind, because it does not really matter, it will be gone by tomorrow, no one will even know, minus those who will be able to smell the change. Stiles pulls his hand away from the bite, and lets his arm hang down at his side once more.

 

“Thank you, Peter. I know you have some selfish reason behind doing this, but… thank you.” Stiles says sincerely, feeling truly thankful of the actions of the man in front of him.

 

Peter smirks, and nods his head, perfectly content to keep the boy in the dark just a little longer. He steps back into the boys space, and tilts Stiles’ head back with a finger underneath his chin. He sees Stiles shoot him a questioning gaze, before he leans in and gently runs his nose up and down the side of the boys neck, the side sans bite. He lets his eyes slip closed as he does this a few more times, making sure his scent will stick until he can see this precious boy again. He finally pulls back, and steps out of Stiles’ space.

 

“Goodnight, Stiles. I have a feeling I will be seeing you very soon.” And with that, Peter waltzes over to the window, and jumps out into the chilly night.  

 

\------------

 

_Stiles tries to get away from the incoming blow, but it is just another failed attempt. His face contorts in pain, and this time he lets out a whimper, making the hunters in the room laugh. He can hear the loud growling of Erica and Boyd, and someone yelling about getting the ‘mutts to shut up’. Stiles does not know how long he has been here, or how long they have been doing this to him, but from the way things are going he does not think they will stop beating him anytime soon. Someone wraps a hand around his jaw and forces him to look up. He looks into the cold eyes of the elder Argent, Gerard._

 

_Stiles looks up at the old man, tears of pain flooding in his eyes. Gerard gets a wicked smirk on his face, and motions forward one of the hunters standing to the side. Stiles cannot hear what Gerard whispers to the other man, but just the way the hunters face lights up makes a shiver run down Stiles’ spine. Stiles watches as the hunter retreats towards the back of the brightly light basement, his back turned towards him. When he turns back around, he marches back over to where Gerard is standing in front of him, and holds out a whip._

 

_Every fibre of Stiles’ being is yelling, screaming, at him to get up, to fight back, to get out of there, to do something but-but he cannot leave Erica and Boyd. He cannot allow them to be hurt anymore than they already are. And, even if he did fight back, it would not change anything. He is not strong like everyone else, he does not have superhuman strength, claws, or fangs. He has nothing. He can do nothing to save them, to save himself. He is, and will always be, just the weak, defenseless, powerless human, just like Gerard has been saying since he grabbed him from the game._

 

_He squeezes his eyes shut as he his manhandled onto the ground, face first giving the other men in the room access to his back. He rests his cheek on the cold ground, face facing Erica and Boyd. He gives the stung up wolves a reassuring smile, ending in a grimace as the smile irritates his bruised cheek. He closes his eyes once more, as he hears the telltale sound of the whip being reared back, bracing for the searing pain he knows will come. The sharp, stinging, pain from the whip rains down on his back, never ceasing. He does not know how long it takes them to get bored, but he knows he is ecstatic when they do… until they flip him over onto his now bleeding back._

 

_Stiles cringes in pain as his back slams into the concrete floor. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see what they have instore for him next. He hears Erica and Boyd growl loudly, louder than they were a few moments earlier, causing Stiles to open his eyes, and with what he sees, he understands why they became louder. Gerard is standing over him, smirking down at him, holding a large knife. He sees the mans smirk widen, before he leans down and drags the blade across his side. The hands holding him down tighten as he squirms, attempting to get away from the pain. Gerard lets out a gruff laugh, before lifting the knife, and plunging it into his stomach._

  


Stiles jolts awake, a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. There are tears slowly running down his flushed cheeks, he raises his shaking hands, and furiously wipes away at them. He presses his palms into is closed eyes, willing the tears to stop. He can practically still feel the whip beating down on his back again and again. He can feel the knife being yanked out of his stomach only to be plunged back in, over and over again. He can hear the laughter of the hunters, the despaired growls and whimpers from Erica and Boyd. He can hear his own heart beating in his ears, pounding away at him like the fists of the men in the basement. He can smell the coopery scent of his own blood, pouring out of his body. He can feel, hear, and smell everything.

 

Stiles knows that he is not there anymore, he knows that he is back in his room, but his body does not, the dream, the _nightmare_ , taking its toll on his body. His hands are shaking, fingers twitching, in all actuality, his entire body is shaking, from fear, pure unadulterated terror. His breathing is erratic and too fast. His heart is pounding loud in his ears, it is the only thing that he can hear. It would be soothing in a way, but not now, not with the way it is beating almost out of his chest in very quick and erratic beats, much like his breaths. He focuses on slowing his breathing down, in for four, out for four. He repeats this until his breathing is somewhat back to normal, and his heart is not about to beat out of his chest with the force of how hard it is beating. Stiles clasps his still shaking hands together, willing them to stop, willing his fingers to stop twitching. It takes a few minutes, but he finally gets himself back under a semblance of control.

 

When he squeezes his eyes shut, he can still see flashes from that night, and it absolutely pains him to relive those moments. So, he flings his eyes open, momentarily blinded by the bright light flooding in through the window. He slowly sits up, expecting to feel blinding pain like he felt last night whenever he moved even a finger. But, he feels nothing, no pain, no pulling of any cuts or slashes… absolutely nothing. Stiles is confused, where is the pain that overtook his every move? Why is he no longer in pain?

 

It takes a few moments before the rest of the events of last night come flooding in. Peter showing up in his room. Peter offering him the bite, and Stiles accepting it… he accepted the bite, that means he is a- he yanks the blanket off his body and rushes to his bathroom. He flips the light switch on and yanks his shirt off, ready for there to be nothing there, but what he sees is not what he expects at all. What he expects is to have no more of those nasty cuts and bruises. Be expects, maybe, even some extra muscle definition, maybe slightly broader shoulders. He expects his eyes to flash golden-yellow, and his face to contort into that of a werewolf. But, that is not what he sees, his expectations are nothing like what he sees in the mirror. What Stiles sees almost brings tears to his eyes, and not the happy kind. It makes him clench his fists tightly, it makes him want to scream.

 

The wounds that should have disappeared have turned into scars, some jagged and raised, some small with a twinge of pink. His arms… they are now covered by what can only be called tattoos. On each arm there is a flame with a symmetrical design that contains curved, fine lines. On the right arm, there is a sword, blade pointing downward, which is attached by a bead chain wrapped around his upper arm multiple times. On the left, there are multiple chains with moon and star charms hanging down from them. There is also a pentagram that seems to be framed by half moons, and followed by the phases of the moon, and something that loosely resembles a snowflake. The last tattoo, or marking that Stiles sees is right over his right hip bone, and trails slightly onto his back. This marking looks like a goose with a duck covering half of it. There are no spaces filled, or colored in with solid black, and it seems to mainly consist of outlines and ornaments. With each new tattoo, marking, symbol, whatever it is that you call them, Stiles uncovers, he feels more anger and confusion. He was supposed to become a werewolf. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to no longer be weak. But, none of that has happened. He has no claws. No fangs, or glowing eyes. He has nothing but these strange markings on his arms and hip. He has so many questions and one part of him knows he needs to go to Peter, but the other, the other wants to figure this out on his own, wants to show that although he has not gained any superhuman strength, claws, fangs, or anything like that, that he still has his knowledge.

 

Stiles does not bother with looking at his back, the dream to fresh in his mind to be able to look at all the little slashes covering his back, and the overwhelming _need_ to know what is happening to him takes over. He exits the bathroom, and sits down at his desk, not bothering to put on his shirt. He turns on the computer, and opens a new tab to begin his research. Stiles starts off with searching for each symbol. For a while everything simply leads to dead end after dead end. He begins to become frustrated, and seriously begins to contemplate giving up. Stiles sighs as he rereads the same sentence for the third time. He closes his eyes for a moment, and after he opens them he moves to close the tab, needing some sort of break, the words beginning to blur together. This is when one certain word sticks out to him, he remembers hearing it at one point, but right now he cannot remember where he heard it. He rereads the word over, and over again, making sure that he will not forget it. _Spark, spark, spark_ …  

  


Peter knows the second that the boy is out of that rusty blue jeep. He knew this was coming last night, he knew the boy would be angry, furious even. He has been expecting Stiles all morning, and he is surprised that is has taken him this long to come find him, he was expecting him to show up at the crack of dawn, not at almost midnight. Peter stays where he is on the couch in the loft, listening as the boy walks up the stairs, moving slower than usual. This peaks Peter’s interests, the boy should be all healed by now,  all of the wounds should be scars now. Not only does this slightly worry the man, but so does the scent of panic, and anger, and betrayal. He listens as the sound of footsteps becomes louder and louder, until the loft door is pushed open.

 

Peter watches as a very sleep deprived Stiles saunters in. The boy takes a seat on the table in front of the couch, and throws a large stack of papers at his chest. He looks down at the paper on top, and sees that it contains information about sparks. Peter looks back up at the boy, and takes in his appearance. Peter’s gaze glances over the large, purple bags, the red rimmed eyes, the paler than normal skin, the twitching fingers, and the shaking hands, and body. He moves to reach out to the boy, to hopefully offer up some ounce of comfort, but before he can touch the boy, Stiles flinches out of reach, with a look of betrayal clear on his face. Peter pulls back, placing the papers on the couch next to him, not needing to even go through the contents, and folds his arms over his chest.

 

“You knew.” Is all Stiles says, glaring over at him.

 

Peter simply nods his head, eyes never leaving the boy’s. He sees Stiles squeeze his eyes shut, and when they open, they are not their normal honey-brown color, instead they are a striking, bright emerald green. He realizes that Stiles must be able to feel when his eyes change, by the way the boy is furiously rubbing at them. Peter leans forward and softly wraps his larger hands around the boys wrists and pulls them away from his face. He tightens his grip when Stiles tries to pull out of his grip. When he does this, an unreadable expression flitters across the boys face, before his now emerald eyes flare brighter, and he yanks his hands back with force that Peter did not know the boy had.

 

“Don’t touch me, Peter.” Stiles says in a clipped voice, looking up at Peter.

 

Peter sighs, “Stiles, I do not understand why you are so upset. I gave you the bite, what more did you want?”

 

Stiles clenches his hands into fists, and in an even more clipped voice says, “You don’t understand why I’m upset? You mean maybe the fact that I’m not a werewolf doesn’t clue you in, or the fact that you fucking lied to me? And, you knew this would happen, and you didn’t tell me! That sounds a lot like lying to me.”

 

Peter simply shrugs his shoulders, like it is no big deal, like it does not mean anything to him, “Well, if I recall correctly, I never once said that you would become a wolf, sweet boy. I only said I would give you the bite, nothing more. Besides, where else would you have gone to get this kind of power, huh? As far as I know, there are no other alphas around here.”

 

Stiles’ glare hardens, “You’re just a jackass, Peter, you could have told me.”

 

Peter smirks, “But, would you have accepted the bite if I told you? Would you have accepted if I told you, you would not become a wolf?”

 

He watches the boy carefully as he answers, “I-I,” Stiles takes a deep breath, “no. No, I would not have accepted the bite.”

 

“See, I did the right thing. You have powers that you did not have before, and do you think that you could have gotten power like this from anywhere?”

 

Stiles looks at Peter, “I’m sure I could have, or I could have gained it myself if I really wanted it.”

 

Peter scoffs, “You think power like that was going to come out on its own? I’m the spark that lit your fire, sweetheart.”

 

The scent permeating from Stiles rapidly changes, it changes to a rich, oaky scent of smoke and pine needles. Peter rears himself back, the smell of the smoke is too much, much to much for him. It takes him back to the fire, back to his six year long coma. It makes him want to flee, to get away from the boy, which has never happened before. Not once has he ever felt the need, the want to get away from this boy in front of him, not until now. Peter squeezes his own eyes shut, hoping to kept the memories away, keep the feel of the fire on his skin, the smell of burning flesh, the screams, oh God the _screams_ , the cries of terror.

 

“Peter?” Stiles’ voice breaks him out of his memories, just enough so he can pull himself out the rest of the way. He can still hear the screams, smell the burning flesh, and feel the fire on his skin, but he no longer sees it, he no longer sees his family burning, he no longer sees himself laying in the hospital bed, unmoving. Now all he sees is the boy in front of him. The boy who looks nervous, scared, worried, the boy whose eyes are still glowing green, less bright now, but still there. The boy whose hands are shaking almost uncontrollably at this point. The boy whose scent is now almost drowned out by the scent of his internal panicking, _almost._   

 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks him, voice small and unsure.

 

Peter nods his head, “Of course, Stiles, I am actually more worried about you.” The lie rolls right of his tongue, not even having to think about it, not having to formulate a lie. He is more worried about the boy, he stopped being worried about himself long, long ago, but he himself, he is nowhere near being okay right now; but he would never let Stiles know that. He watches as Stiles tilts his head to the side, and his brows furrow, watching him right back. Stiles continues to do this for a few minutes, not saying anything. Peter wants to ask the boy if _he_ is okay, but Stiles beats him to it.

 

“Why are you lying, Peter?” Stiles asks, eyes never leaving Peter’s.

 

Peter is taken aback. The boy should not be able to feel that, should not be able to feel that he is lying. He should not be able to do much of anything right now, seeing as he was just changed last night. It should take months, maybe even years for Stiles to be able to do that. This makes him wonder what more the boy can already do. He watches the boy right back, trying to figure out just how _strong_ he is, and just how strong he can _become_ . Peter was not expecting this to happen, was not expecting the boy to be this strong right off the bat. He chuckles to himself, _I guess the boy will never stop shocking me._

 

“Who says I am lying, Stiles?” Although Peter knows Stiles can tell when he is lying, that does not mean that he will tell the boy the truth.

 

“I do! I can,” Stiles takes a moment to get the wording correct before he continues on, “feel, sense? That you’re lying. You don’t have to lie, Peter, you can just come out and say that you’re not worried about me at all.”

 

Peter is surprised that Stiles would think that he was lying about being worried, and not about being okay. He looks down at the boy, who is not looking up at Peter, and although he still smells like smoke and pine needles, it has been altered. No longer is there the scent of anger, now there is sadness or dejection, and resignation. Peter’s face drops once he realizes why Stiles is feeling this way, and it almost physically hurts _him_.

 

“Stiles, that’s not what I-” Peter is cut off by Stiles, who abruptly looks up when he starts talking.

 

“It’s fine, Peter. You wouldn’t be the first person and you’re definitely not going to be the last.” Peter does not think he has heard Stiles sound so dejected before, it makes him feel miserable that he caused this somehow.

 

Stiles stands up without warning, and looks down at Peter before saying, “If you have any books or information on what these tattoos are, that would be great. I’m just going to head home now.”

 

Peter opens and closes his mouth, trying to figure out what to say, what to do in order to fix this before the boy walks out of the door. But, nothing comes to mind, he is not someone who apologizes often, if ever. He does not care about people’s feelings, not unless it can get him what he wants, but with Stiles… With Stiles, he is in physical pain due to the idea that he hurt him like this, even if it was unintentional. He is just completely out of his element here, he is so lost. Before he can get the chance to figure out how to approach the situation at hand, Stiles is already out the loft door, smelling even more dejected than he was a few seconds ago.

 

Peter puts his head in his hands, and lets out a loud sigh. He stays like this, until he hears footsteps in the stairway. It takes the man a moment to get his senses under control, still only smelling the smoke and the dejection, sadness, and resignation, but once he does, he can tell that it is only Derek coming back from God knows where. Peter looks up as the loft door swings open once again, seeing Derek with bags of groceries, because of course he would go shopping at past midnight, because that is obviously what normal people do.

 

Derek sets the bags down on the counter before making his way over to Peter, a hard look in his eyes, much worse than usual, “What did you do, Uncle Peter?”

 

“You’re a big kid, Derek, I am sure that you can figure it out on your own.” Peter replies.

 

Derek rolls his eyes, “Peter, just tell me what you did.”

 

“What is it that you think I did, nephew?” Peter stands up, hating the fact that Derek is standing over him.

 

“I think you hurt Stiles.” Peter almost flinches back, but he manages to keep himself still, and his face impassive, not wanting Derek to see anything.

 

“I gave him the bite, that’s it.” With that, Peter heads for the stairs, “Oh, and nephew, don’t forget to put the food away, you wouldn’t want them to spoil.”

 

Peter can practically feel when Derek opens his mouth to speak, and when he does, it makes him clench his hands into fists, “We both know that’s not the only thing you did. Whatever else it is that you have done, you need to fix it, and fix it fast, because he does not deserve to feel like that.”

 

Peter is already in his room before Derek finishes talking, but Peter can still hear everything loud and clear, which is normally a blessing, but now? Now, it is a curse. He does not want to have to hear Derek say what he already knows. He already feels bad enough for what he has done, he does not need any extra guilt on his shoulders. Right now he wants nothing more than to go to the Stilinski residence and check on Stiles, but the logical part of him knows that going now would do nothing, except make things worse. The boy is in no place to listen to Peter, and he knows that. Which is what Peter tells himself to make him feel better about the situation, but of course, it does not work, if anything, it makes him feel worse than he did.

 

Back in his room, Stiles is sitting on the end of his bed, trying to keep the tears at bay, and not really understanding why he feels this horrible that Peter is not worried about him, does not care about him. But at this point who does? His dad is never around, he is avoiding him, his own son, so he stays at work for long hours, sometimes even sleeps there. And Scott has not talked to him since before the whole kanima incident went down last night, and not once has he tried to reach out and ask if Stiles is okay, not once did he ever notice that he was injured and in immense amounts of pain. And, if the two most important people do not care about him, how can Stiles expect anyone else to, how can he think that Peter would ever care about him? Stiles does not know why he even wants Peter to care about him, maybe Stiles just wants someone, anyone, to show they care about him.

 

Stiles lays down on his bed, not bothering to cover up with the blanket, or change his clothes, he does not really bother with doing anything. He cannot focus on anything, his emotions all over the place. He feels upset, dejected, but understanding. He feels angry, but not at Peter, but at himself. How can he possibly think that he would turn into something strong like a werewolf, when he is just weak, defenseless, and as Gerard put it, a good victim? How can he think that he would get claws and fangs when he cannot do anything, and is not good for anything? The only thing he is good at is being a victim, and anything else that he is remotely good at, there is always someone better at it than him.

 

Stiles can feel his eyes glowing again. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing them to stop, willing them to go back to normal, but it does not work. He huffs as he sits up, and heads to the bathroom. He looks in the mirror, and sees his green glowing eyes. He clenches his fists, and starts trying to slow his breathing, thinking that maybe if he was somewhat calm that they would change back. It takes a few minutes, but it does end up working, even with his emotions in twenty different directions. He breathes out one last times, and he notices something weird. His hands, well his fingers at least, are getting hot. He unclenches his hands, and looks down at his hands. He flings himself backwards when he sees them, there are small almost golden sparks coming out from the tips of his fingers. He does not know what to do, _there are sparks coming out from his fingers._ Stiles shakes his hands out, trying anything to get them to stop. He does this for a good few minutes, he may look ridiculous, but the sparks to begin to get smaller, and then disappear. He does not know what has just happened, but he does know that he will be doing a lot of research.

 

\----------

 

Stiles is laying on his bed in the same exact position that he was in last night. Simply just staring up at the white ceiling. He is no longer just tired, or just exhausted; he is now dead tired. He feels like he has not slept in days, and maybe it is because he has not. His days are beginning to blur together, he is not even sure if it is morning or night. It is not as if he did not want to sleep the first night, but everytime he closes his eyes, he is back in the basement, with cuts, and bruises that seem never ending, with blow after blow landing on him nonstop, with Erica and Boyd strung up a few feet away, and now? Now, everytime to world outside goes dark, the panic sets in, the fear creeps back in, and the feeling of impending doom looms in the air, but now those feelings, and emotions are now moving their way into the light, slowly overtaking his everyday life.

 

The boy blinks a few times as the room goes blurry for what seems like the hundredth time today(tonight?), all he knows is that it has been three days since he has last spoken to anyone, the last person he having spoken to being Peter. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands, and for the first time in two days sits up. Stiles turns his body so his legs hang off the edge of the bed, feet touching to floor. He feels his eyes slipping closed, and he abruptly stands up, the world tilting slight as he does so. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to will the room to stop spinning, and moving so much. He slowly, oh so slowly, makes his way to the bathroom, and he barely remembers to strip himself of his old sweats before stepping into the freezing cold water.

 

His body immediately jolts awake, but his mind, is a completely different story. His mind still feels just as horrible as it did just a few minutes before, with everything all jumbled together, and nonstop moving. Stiles has never wished to be able to just turn it off as much as he does right now, even if it was for just one measly moment. All he wants, all he _needs_ , is just a few moments of peace, but how does one find peace in an endless bounty of fear, panic, and impending doom standing right over them? The unfortunate answer is, is that they are unable to, that they cannot, and most likely never will find it.

 

He goes through the motions of his shower, the washing of the hair, body, and face. He makes a move to turn the water off, but he decides not to, and drops his hand back down to his side. Stiles hangs his head down, just letting the cold water run over his head, and down his lithe body. He wishes that all his worries, and panic would flow down the drain along with the water, but unfortunately that is all that it is, a wish, one that never comes true at that.

 

After minutes, or it could have been hours, Stiles does not really know anymore, he turns the water off and finally steps out. He wraps a towel around his waist, and goes back into his room so he can change. He throws on a t-shirt, and a new pair of sweatpants over his boxers, and puts his dirty laundry into the hamper in the corner of his room. He makes his way over to his desk, and sits down in his chair. As he boots up his computer, he feels all of a sudden alert, as if ready for an attack. At first he is confused, because he is the only one in the house, but that is until he feels a presence outside his window. Stiles pushes his chair back, abandoning all thoughts of research, and goes to investigate. Right as he gets to the window, someone jumps in, almost knocking the boy down. He moves backwards, and bumps into the desk as the person stands up, their back towards Stiles. He goes to say something, anything, until the other person in the room turns around.

 

“Scott?” Stiles asks breathlessly.

 

Stiles watches as the other boy looks around the room, before his brown eyes land on him, and narrow into almost slits. “Now I know why you haven’t been around.” Scott says with a bite.

 

Stiles jerks back, wanting to put more space between them, “It took you this long to figure it out?”

 

Stiles does not know whether to be happy or not that Scott has finally caught on the the fact that Stiles was indeed not alright. He could not believe that it took Scott this long to find out. Well, maybe he could. For the longest time now, all Scott cared about was himself, and Allison. Stiles had been cast aside, like all the other times something _better_ came up.

 

Scott sneers, “Oh, I’m sorry that my so called best friend went behind my back and got the bite, from _Peter_ of all people!”

 

Stiles reers back like he had been hit, “W-what? How did you-”

 

Scott cuts him off, “Don’t play dumb, Stiles. I can smell it on you, Peter bit you.” Scott stalks closer to the shaking boy, and says, “And I can clearly see the bite mark.”

 

Stiles’ hand flys up to his neck, trying to cover the mark, even though he knows it is too late. The truth is, Stiles was not trying to hide it from Scott, but he just has not found the right time to tell him. It feels like the largest smack in the face that Scott came here to yell at him about the bite, and not to ask if he is alright from what Gerard did to him. It comes to Stiles’ realization that Scott most likely does not even know what happened that night, and that he will not care, the glaring and sneering is answer enough.

 

“I always knew something was going on, you purposely missed throwing the cocktail that night, and I finally know why. It’s because you wanted the bite, you wanted to be a werewolf, but it looks like you didn’t get what you wanted.” Stiles narrows his eyes in confusion, because he had specifically told the other boy exactly why they should not have killed Peter, and now it just seems like Scott had forgotten… or maybe, the boy had not payed attention in the first place.

 

“Do you hear yourself, you just sound insane, Scott. None of what you are saying is true, well, only one thing is true, and that is that I missed on purpose, but I only did that, because it was not right. Peter did not deserve to die, because the second that he killed Kate, he was finished, everyone could see it. He just wanted justice for his family. So, me missing on purpose had nothing to do with me getting the bite, I have no idea why you would even think that.”

 

Scott scoffs and rolls his eyes, “You’re lying, you just wanted to spare Peter for your own selfish reasons.” Stiles wants to feel shocked at how Scott is calling him a liar, even though he should be able to hear his heartbeat, and how it has not changed at all during Stiles’ statement, but he truly is not.

 

“Scott, I am not lying, you can clearly hear my heartbeat, you can hear how it did not change. I. Am. Not. Lying.” Stiles emphasizes the end, in hopes that it will get through the boy’s thick skull, but of course, when does anything actually get through to Scott?

 

“That doesn’t matter, you’re just a great liar. I mean, you lie to your dad all the time, you’ve just gotten used to the sound of your lies, so of course your heartbeat would not change.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth, ready to defend himself once more, only to be cut off by Scott once more, “You do realize you did this all for nothing, right? You have gained nothing, you are still exactly as you were before, now you’re just down a best friend.”

 

It finally hits Stiles as to why, well one reason why, Scott is acting this way, “Are you angry that I did not tell you that Peter bit me? Is that the whole reason behind this, Scott?”

 

Scott growls lowly, but for once, Stiles gets out what he needs to, “Scott, I’m sorry I did not tell you, but it just happened. I’ve been trying to get used to my powers, and I’ve been going through a lot right now, okay?” Stiles does not know why he is apologizing for this, it was a good decision, even though he did not end up turning into what he thought he would have.

 

“Powers? Really, Stiles? What _powers_ could you possibly have? You’re not even a werewolf.” Scott says angrily.

 

“Do you even hear yourself? You don’t have to be a werewolf to be strong, Scott.” Stiles bites back, fed up with the way Scott was acting.

 

“Well, how would you know? You’re still just the weak, defenseless, human you’ve always been.” Stiles feels like he could puke right now. That was one of the main reasons why he accepted the bite. Was Scott right? Was Stiles still just as weak and defenseless as he was before?

 

“And,” Scott starts, drawing Stiles out from the inner turmoil that is beginning to take over once more, “you don’t even have a pack.”

 

Stiles looks up at Scott, “What, of course I do.” Stiles does not understand, of course he has a pack, he has Peter, no matter how upset he is with the older man. He has Derek, and even Jackson and Lydia.

 

“No, you really don’t. You’re not in my pack, and there is no way that Peter and the others would want _you_ , because I know I sure don’t.” Scott looks Stiles up and down in disgust, “They would never see you as pack, they will never want you, Stiles, because who would want someone like you in their pack? Who would want a _weak human_ in their pack?”

 

Stiles can feel his magic buzzing just under his skin, begging to be let out, begging Stiles to do something, anything. He pushes the feeling down, knowing that if he did anything it will just makes matters worse. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will the tears away, because, maybe Scott was right… of course Scott was right. Of course Peter and the others did not actually want him in the pack, because all he is, is weak, and that is all he will ever be.

 

Stiles opens his eyes to see Scott staring down at his phone, “I’m leaving now, one of my _pack_ members needs me.” Stiles watches as the other boy jumps back out the window, ignoring the tears now running down Stiles’ cheeks, and the smell of smoke, and pine needles.

 

Stiles looks down at his hands to see small, golden orange sparks bursting from his fingertips. He sighs, and takes a few deep breaths. He watches as the sparks begin to disappear, until they are completely gone. Stiles shakes out his hands a few times, before going over to the window. He shuts and locks it, not wanting to have anymore surprise visitors of the supernatural kind. Stiles moves over to his bed, and lays down again.

 

His eyes find the ceiling once more, and he begins to count the cracks on his ceiling. When he counts them all, he simply starts over, letting himself lose track of time once more, letting his mind wander in hopes that the fear and panic and impending doom will not be joined by the newfound insecurities implanted by Scott. As he lays there unmoving, he starts to lose sight of the room, the world, outside from the white ceiling. He is so lost in his thoughts, his emotions, fears, and insecurities that he completely ignores the sound of his phone going off, just like he has been doing for the past three days.

 

\-----------

 

It has been a few days since Stiles has seen Scott, a few days since he has really seen anyone. He has been staying holed up in his room, not in the mood to see anyone, and he just could not physically get himself up, could not get himself out of bed, or to just move at all. This is the first time in almost a week that he has actually left his room, granted, he is only leaving to take a shower, but, it is still something. He moves slowly, very slowly to the bathroom, and barley remembers to turn on the light before heading to the shower. Stiles turns the shower on, rids himself of his clothing, and steps into the water.

 

The water running down his body jolts him awake, well, as awake as he can be seeing that he has not slept in a few days. He goes through the motions of the shower. Washes his hair, his body, his face, and rinses it all off. Once he is done, he just stands there letting the cold water run down his head and back. This is the first time in days that he has felt something other than paranoia and dread. Those two put together feels like something creeping up and down his spine, it feels like someone is watching him from afar, it feels like he is never alone. More often than not, it leads Stiles’ magic to practically go haywire. Just the other day he made all the lights in the kitchen spark and go out, when he had felt like someone was in the house with him. Stiles quickly shuts the water off and steps out, not wanting to think about all the times he has felt eyes on him, even when there was no one there. Or, all the times that he has felt someone there, but not seen them.

 

Once Stiles has his towel wrapped around his waist, he enters his room and immediately goes over to all the windows in his room, and pulls all the curtains closed. The second that he had stepped into the room, he had felt someone watching him, his magic had felt someone near the house. He double checks that all the curtains are closed, before he finally gets dressed. He simply slips on another pair of sweatpants and a new shirt, not really caring about what he looks like. Once that is done, he goes down stairs, and heads to the kitchen, where he also pulls all the curtains closed, the feeling of being watched having followed him. Even with the curtains closed, he still feels that paranoia and dread, making him constantly look around, constantly fear that someone is _right there_.

 

He does another quick look around before he sits down at the kitchen table. He just sits there for a minute, trying to clear his head, trying get rid of that horrible feeling. It takes Stiles a few minutes, and even then it has still not gone away, just diminished slightly, but it is still a lot better than it was before. He lets out a breath of relief, finally able to begin what be came down stairs for, practicing his magic. He does not know all of what he can do, other than being able to make sparks come out of his hands, but even then, that just happens when he gets too worked up. Stiles has virtually no control over this, and he wants to have control, he needs control. He needs to become stronger, but before that he needs control.

 

Stiles has been trying to go through things he remembers Deaton saying about sparks, but the only thing he can remember is what the man said about mountain ash. He thinks back to the night club, where he created the mountain ash circle, where he completed it even though he had no where near enough to finish the circle. Stiles closes his eyes, Deaton had said that Stiles had to believe that he could do it, that he could finish it, and it would happen. It is as if a lightbulb lights up above his head, he has to _believe_ , and it will happen, but will that work for everything about his magic? Stiles opens his eyes and he can feel them glowing already, almost as if his magic knows that he wants to use it. He stares down at his hands, thinking about what he wants to try first, he closes his eyes once more and he thinks about the sparks, and he thinks about how he can make them form, make them appear, he believes that he can do it.

 

At first, nothing happens, nothing changes, but a few seconds later his hands begin to heat up. It is not too hot, Stiles can barely feel it. He still keeps his eyes closed, and repeats the same phrase over and over again, ‘I believe I can do do it’, it sounds childish to him, but it seems to be doing something. Stiles can feel his hands heat up more, to the point that he is surprised that it does not hurt more. He stops repeating the phrase in his head, and Stiles is expecting for the heat level to stay the same, but that is not what happens. Instead, the heat continues to intensify, growing hotter than they ever have before.

 

Stiles flings his eyes open as the heat gets too much. When he looks down at his hands, there are no sparks, but instead, there is a large flame in each hand. He just stares down at them, this is not what he wanted to happen, all he was trying to was make the sparks appear, this is not what he wanted. Stiles feels his panic rising as the heat does not diminish, causing the flames to grow larger, which then leads to more panic; it is an endless, vicious cycle, one that he really needs to end.

 

He tries blowing on the flames, but it does not work, if anything they grow just a little bit larger. Stiles can feel his eyes glow brighter, and he squeezes them shut, willing them to stop, willing everything to just stop. He begins to shake, his nerves and panic beginning to become too much. Stiles is not sure what to do, all he wants is for the flames to go out, to go away. but he is not sure how. In the end, he decides to simply shake his hands out, like one would do after washing them, but it turns out to be a humongous mistake. When he does this, both of the flames shoot out from his hands, leaving them completely. One hits the chair next to him, and the other burns out just before it hits the wall. Stiles immediately stands up, knocking the chair he was in down to the ground with a loud thump. The chair the flame hit, part of it is on fire. The flame does not grow larger, does not spread any, and does not burn anything next to it. Stiles is confused, but a larger part of him is just relieved, relieved that it's not getting larger.

 

Stiles keeps his eyes on the flame, watching as it never changes size, and he rushes over to the sink and grabs a cup. He fills it up with water, never taking his eyes off the flame, and he takes the cup and just throws it on the chair, hitting the small fire. But, the flame does not go out. Stiles’ eyes widen, why is it not going out? He watches with still wide eyes as the flame travels across the chair, and over to him, floating in mid air near his hand. He slowly lifts up his hand, palm side up, unsure of what will happen, and he just keeps whispering to himself, “please disappear, please disappear.” Stiles must have done something right, because once the flame touches his hand, it is as if it just sinks right into his skin. The only sign of it ever being there is the warmth left behind. Stiles sinks down into the seat that was once on fire, and breathes out a loud sigh of relief, the flames are gone. Stiles feels like he could cry, he is so relieved.

 

As he continues to sit there, he begins to grow more and more tired. Stiles brushes it away, with thinking that it is just from the lack of sleep. He lays his head down on the table, as he thinks through more things he wants to try, wants to see if he can do them. Stiles wants to try the mountain ash trick again, but he does not have any, and the only two people he knows that will have any is Deaton and… Argent. A shiver runs down his spine as he thinks about the second man, thinks about the man's father, and the basement. Stiles’ whole body tenses up, as if gearing up for a fight, a fight he already lost, a fight that still haunts him and will most likely haunt him for forever.

 

Stiles lifts his head, trying to rid his mind of that horrid night, and he tries to think of more things to try. His mind ends up wandering to telekinesis, and wondering if he would be able to do that. Stiles looks around the kitchen, looking for something that he would want to come to him. He decides on his phone, that he is not quite sure how it got down stairs, because he was sure that he left it in his room. Stiles pushes that thought away, really not thinking anything of it, not thinking that it is a big deal. Stiles closes his eyes, and repeats the same thing as earlier, just this time, saying that he can bring his phone to him without moving. It takes a few minutes, but when he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is his phone flying towards him. Stiles has barely enough time to catch it before it almost hits him in the face. The next thing he sees is everything that is not attached to something, so things like cups, mugs, plates, silverware, anything like that, is floating in the air.

 

Stiles cannot help the small smile that appears on his face. In its own way, it is beautiful, all the utensils just floating through the air, sometimes sparkling when the light catches it just right. As he looks around the room, with everything floating around him, Stiles feels something, he feels this immense sense of pride, but, but it is not coming from him. It feels like it is dulled, like Stiles is feeling that pride through someone else. The feeling that someone is watching him comes back, but this time more powerful. As quickly as Stiles can he makes everything float back to where it came from, which, turns out to take a lot less time to do than the first time, and he rushes to where he felt the emotion come from, where he felt like that someone watching him was; his bedroom. But, once he gets there, there is no one there, but Stiles swears he can feel the traces of someone in there.

 

Stiles searches around the room for something, anything that could be out of place, but he comes up empty handed. He is frustrated, Stiles knows that there was someone in there, he knows that someone was in his room, he just knows. He sighs, and looks around one more time, this time trying out his magic. Stiles thinks about how the person feels, which, he could not get much, all he can feel is the pride, and just the sense of wrongness in his room. After a minute or two, Stiles gets this feeling that he has to go down stairs, it is almost like his magic is pushing him in that direction. He slowly follows the path that his magic has given him, the magic leading him back to the kitchen table. At first, Stiles is confused as to why he is back here, he cannot feel anything different, it feels just like it did before, but he cannot help but feel like something is out of place. Stiles looks everywhere in the kitchen, but he cannot find anything. He is about to give up, when be feels this little nudge from his magic, urging him to go back towards the table, this is when Stiles realizes why he was sent down here. His phone is no longer there, no longer where be put it down at. Stiles knows that, that was where he put it down at, but now it is gone.

 

Stiles feels dread creep back in, his phone is gone, and he is not the one who moved it, he never touched it after he caught it to stop it from hitting him in the face. He looks around the room once more to be sure, but his phone is still no where to be found. At this point, Stiles does not know what to think, of what to do. Stiles does not want to let it go, this is not something that you simply let go. He felt someone in the house, in his room, he knows exactly where he put his phone at, but now it is missing, but, he really has no other choice. There is no one he can tell, Stiles is not talking to Scott, and he does not want to go to Peter, because he is still upset with him. He cannot go to Derek, or anyone else, because he is nowhere near being close to them; he has no one to turn to, Stiles can not even turn to his own father. His dad has not even shown up to just check on Stiles, his own son, it is like his dad has forgotten he even exists. So, even if he went to the man, he would most likely not care, or just blow it off. Stiles just feels so on edge, but also, so defeated and exhausted. He feels like he could pass out cold right here, right now. But, he also feels like he will not be able to sleep for another few days, possibly even weeks. It is as if Stiles’ body is in a war with itself, one side exhausted, and the other side keyed up, and on edge to the point of no return.

 

Stiles exits the kitchen, unable to stand in there anymore, too freaked out, and he heads back to his room. He makes a move to just get back into bed, having enough of the day already, and this is when he finds his phone. With wide eyes Stiles stares down at his bed, his phone just sitting there in the middle of it. As he stands there in shock, he feels a light breeze, and quickly looks up. Stiles knows that the window was shut, and locked, but now, now it is wide open. He rushes over to the window and yanks it shut, locking the little latch, and pulls the curtains tightly closed. The only thing he grabs before exiting his room is his pillow, and with that, he hightails it out of that room and into the living room. Stiles tosses his pillow onto the couch before checking each and every window down stairs, and upstairs, taking zero chances of whoever it was getting back in here. When he is back in the living room, he locks the door, and then, only then does he release the breath that he does not know how long he has been holding. Stiles does not feel safe in anyway, shape, or form, but he will take what he can get at this point.

 

Stiles goes and lays down on the couch, just wanting to take a nap. It takes him just a few minutes before he is our like a light. He dreams about the same thing he always does, the basement, being beaten, not being able to save Erica and Boyd, being tortured, all of it. Due to the nightmares, he jolts awake, sitting straight up, breath coming out quickly, and still fuzzy eyes darting all over around the room. When they are cleared, and he is able to see better, the first thing Stiles notices is his phone sitting on the coffee table in front of him, and the second, the second is the wide open front door, the same door that he had locked.

 

\-------------

 

Stiles reaches out and grabs the first pack of energy drinks that he sees, and drops it into the basket hanging off his arm. To be safe, he grabs two more packs, and the giant bottle of soda sitting next to them. He raises a shaking hand, and rubs his incredibly exhausted eyes. He squeezes them shut, just for a few moments, too afraid to leave them closed for any longer. The past few days, weeks actually, have been horrific, what with the constant paranoia, and the constant feeling of being watched, which both lead to not sleeping, and then to simply not doing anything. And all of those leads to not having the will do really do anything. He quickly opens his eyes, his magic alerting him to someone coming towards him. He spins around, only to come face to face with Christopher Argent.

 

Stiles just stares at the man, his heart racing, eyes darting all over around the man, trying to figure out why he would be here, be near him. He watches as Argent’s expression changes from one of stoicism, to one of immense concern as he looks over the boy. Stiles makes a move to back up, the only thoughts on his mind being that of Gerard, and the pain, torture, and of that basement he never thought he would get out of. Argent moves forward, holding up both hands, showing that he has nothing with him, nothing that could hurt him. Stiles still does not think that he would ever trust the man again, even though he was not the one that hurt him, but… but he is a hunter, and from the same family of the man who did hurt him.

 

Christopher watches as Stiles takes another step back, as he takes one to move closer to the boy, as if to flee. He looks the boy up and down again, cataloguing the heavy, dark bags underneath bloodshot eyes. The honey colored eyes that would not stop moving, taking in every inch of his surroundings, as if expecting someone, or something to jump out at any moment. The shaking hands holding onto the basket like a lifeline. The way the boy’s chest rises and falls quicker than normal, his breaths coming out a little too quickly. The strange tattoos on Stiles’ arms stick out to him, he recalls having seeing them before, but he cannot remember where he saw them. He keeps his eyes trained on them, trying to take in every inch of them, until his view of them is obstructed, when Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. Christopher looks back up at the boy’s face, seeing immense sadness, and another emotion that was unreadable.

 

“Stiles, are you alright?” He asks the boy, taking another step towards him.

 

Christopher watches as Stiles casts his eyes towards the ground, and he could have sworn he saw them flash green. He waits for an answer, that he does not recieve, Stiles keeps his mouth firmly shut, making no move to answer him; it is almost like the boy did not hear him. Christopher sighs, and takes a small step, smaller than the one from earlier, trying not to spook the boy. Stiles still flinches back, but not as much as last time, giving Christopher a small ounce of hope, hope that maybe he will be able to talk to the boy even the tiniest amount. He still does not dare to reach an arm, or hand out, knowing that Stiles will surely turn heel and run; because at this point, Christopher can see that the boy is reacting much like a frightened animal.

 

Christopher continues on talking, hoping that Stiles will respond to something, growing more worried by the second, “I am terribly sorry for what has happened to you, what has happened to you by my father’s, and his goons’ hands. I wish I would have done something to help, because that should not have happened to you, or Erica and Boyd.”

 

When Christopher finishes speaking, Stiles looks up, a look of confusion falling over his features, like he is not sure as to why he is being nice to him. He watches as Stiles opens and closes his mouth, as if preparing to say something, before the boy settles on simply nodding his head, and shrugging his shoulders in a flippant manner; in a way he is acknowledging the statements, but he is also blowing it off it off almost completely, as if he does not believe him. Christopher sighs, not knowing what he can do, but knowing that he does not want to leave the boy alone right now, and also knowing that the boy simply just needs someone there with him, knows that Stiles most likely does not want to be alone, but will never ask for Christopher, especially Christopher, to stay with him.

 

“Stiles, are you okay?” Christopher is hoping, maybe even praying, that with the boy’s attention on him once more that Stiles will answer it, or just listen, and hear the question.

 

Christopher is very taken aback by the shocked expression that appears to Stiles’ face, it is almost as if no one has asked the boy if he is okay, or fine, or anything along those lines in quite sometime. Once again, Stiles opens and closes his mouth, much like a fish out of water, and at this point, Christopher is not expecting an answer. He lets out a quiet sigh when Stiles snaps his mouth shut with a loud click. He does not know what to do, he does not know what to say to the boy to make him answer, to wipe away the look of a lifelong, a deep, _deep_ exhaustion. He is close to giving up, and he is someone who almost never gives up, so this is saying something, but that is until Stiles finally says something, his voice coming out in a croak, rough from disuse.

 

“Why would you ask me that?”

 

Christopher says in a gentle manner, “Well, kid, you’re looking a little rough, like you’re not sleeping.”

 

It takes the boy much longer to reply, but once he does, Christopher understands why, “Because I’m not sleeping, I _can’t_ sleep.”

 

Stiles’ voice comes out much more rough than before, and as Christopher watches the boy, trying to come up with another thing to say, something to say to ease the look of sadness and pain off the boy’s face. He feels devastated for Stiles, and he does not even know what is causing him to feel, and look this way. He knows part of it is from Gerard, but there is, there has to be something more going on, and right now, Christopher wants nothing more than to get to the bottom of this. He wants nothing more than to find out who did this to this boy, this boy who cares more for those around him than himself. This boy who would happily die for someone he loves, and hell, he would happily die for a _stranger_. And that is what hurts Christopher most about this situation, the fact that someone would have the audacity to hurt this sweet, caring, kind hearted, selfless boy.

 

Christopher gets ready to say something, but the next thing he knows, Stiles just _breaks down_. Heavy sobs just wracking at his lithe body with tremendous strength that it just shakes his body. Large tears just fall down the boy’s cheeks, and he sees Stiles’ eyes change to an emerald color, and back to their usual honey brown multiple times. He immediately moves over to Stiles, and this time he does not flinch away from his touch, if anything, the boy leans into his side as Christopher puts an arm around his small shoulders. This makes Christopher question just what has been happening to Stiles in order to make him lean into him, when not even five minutes ago he was flinching away from him even with one small step towards him.

 

He takes the basket out of Stiles’ tight grip, and just sets it in an empty space on one of the shelves. Christopher leads the boy out of the aisle, and then out of the store, into the parking lot. He takes one look at the sobbing boy, and decides that he is in no state to be driving, let alone to be alone. He rubs the boys shoulder with his large hand, trying to soothe him as he leads Stiles to his suv. He hears Stiles make a noise, as if protesting, and moves to pull out of his grip, but Christopher is just not having it. He tightens his grip, just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough that it is definitely noticed.

 

“Stiles, you are in no place to be alone right now. Just let me help you okay?”

 

He has to wait a few long, very long, moments for Stiles to answer, but when the boy does answer, it is with a small, slow nod. Christopher breathes out a sigh of relief, feeling extremely grateful that Stiles is allowing him to help. He gets Stiles into the passenger side and shuts the door before rushing over to the other side, and getting himself in. He buckles himself up, and makes sure that Stiles is buckled up as well before taking off. He may break a few laws on the way to his home, but he just wants to get Stiles comfortable as soon as possible. Once they get there, he parks haphazardly, and quickly gets out and rounds the other side of the car to get to the boy, who has still not stopped crying; he has stopped sobbing, but the tears are still falling freely, looking as if there is no stop to them.

 

Christopher gets them both inside fairly quickly, stealing nervous glances at the boy who is moving around almost as if he is in a daze, his eyes practically glazed over. He leads Stiles to the living room and onto the couch, with a firm hand on his lower back, and sits down next to the shaking boy. Stiles does not even react to having Christopher so close to him, he just simply sits there with his eyes cast down. Christopher leans over and wraps both arms around the boy in a firm, but gentle hug. He runs a hand up and down his back, until Stiles practically melts into his embrace, letting his head rest in Christopher’s neck.

 

Christopher squeezes his arms around Stiles more firmly than before, trying to reassure the boy that he was there with him, that he is safe. He can feel his neck becoming wet, whether with snot or tears, he is not really sure, but he also does not care. It is very obvious that this boy just needed to have this, needed to just let it all out. The two of them stay like that for a while, Christopher keeping his arms tightly around the boy while he continued to cry. Eventually, Christopher stopped feeling the boy’s tears flowing, and all he hears is Stiles’ sniffling. When he moves to unwrap his arms, the boy in his arms makes a noise, not unlike a small whine, protesting the movement.

 

“Okay, okay. We can stay like this.” Christopher says, in the most soothing way possible, running a hand loosely up and down Stiles’ back once more.

 

He feels Stiles nod his head, and if it is even possible, he feels him burrow closer, somehow nuzzling his face deeper into his neck. After that, Stiles does not move much or make much noise other than the quiet sniffling, seemingly content with just sitting there, wrapped in his arms. Christopher has no problem with this, he too is perfectly content to give the boy this, he has absolutely no problem with doing this for him when he so clearly needs this, needs this comfort. It is almost as if the boy has not had this, had someone to do this for him, to just sit with him like this, in such a long time, and that brings a bad feeling to Christopher's gut. He is lost in his thoughts when he finally hears Stiles say something for the first time since his breakdown.

 

“I'm sorry.” Stiles’ voice comes out very croaky, and rough, much worse than it was earlier; it practically breaks Christopher's heart.

 

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Stiles. Why are you apologizing?” Christopher is generally confused as to why the boy feels the need to apologize, he has not done anything wrong.

 

He hears Stiles clear his throat before speaking again, “Because, I know this is not how you want to spend your afternoon. I can leave right now, I don't want to bother you.”

 

“You are no bother at all, I don't _want_ you to leave.” Christopher says the last statement with force, trying to drill that into the boy's head. Christopher sees, and feels, Stiles rear back in shock, like he is confused that someone wants to be around him.

 

“You-you want me to stay?” Stiles asks incredulously, in complete and utter shock.

 

“Yes, Stiles. Why is that so hard to believe that I care about you?” Christopher is getting angrier by the second, but not at the boy, but at whoever made him feel this way.

 

Stiles stutters, “You-you c-care about me?” The way that the boy says it may have actually broken Christopher's heart. He hears the boy ask that in such a way that it almost seems like Stiles just assumes that no one at all cares about him.

 

“Of course I do, Stiles.” Christopher says it with such conviction that it makes tears spring into the boy’s eyes sitting across from him.

 

Christopher reaches out to Stiles, opening his arms, and Stiles just falls right into them, and wraps his own slender arms around Christopher. The boy squeezes Christopher’s middle tightly, making Christopher smile slightly, happy that he could have made Stiles’ day even a little bit better. He hugs Stiles back just as tightly, before leaning back slightly, arms still wrapped around the boy. Christopher sees that Stiles’ eyes are still wet, and he is sniffling slightly again, but he has a slight smile, just beginning to play on his lips. Christopher is over the moon about how he made him smile, but, now he is most likely about to make the smile to disappear, and although he knows it will hurt him to do so, he just has to know who did this to Stiles.  

 

“Stiles,” Christopher starts oh so gently, “would you be able to tell me what happened to cause this? To cause you to feel horrible like this?”

 

Christopher watches as the smile just falls right of his face, as despair crosses over his features, and pulls of of Christopher’s arms, almost curling in on himself. Christopher immediately wants to take it back, wants to make him smile again. He watches as Stiles looks away, and closing his eyes, squeezing them shut. He sees Stiles raise both hands and rubs at them vigorously. When the boy looks back up, eyes now open, Christopher has to hold in a gasp at the sight of Stiles’ glowing, bright emerald colored eyes. They look different, much different than they did earlier, they are now much brighter, and much more green, if that is even possible.

 

Stiles looks up at Christopher through his lashes, and says, “I should maybe start from the beginning.”

 

Christopher listens as Stiles runs through everything, starting with the night that they all dealt with Jackson being the kanima, and ending with last night. He runs through everything, Scott just overall being a bad friend, hardly being a friend at all. The Sheriff not talking to him, him being avoided by his own father. No one really talking to him, asking him if he is okay, no one even acknowledging his existence. He ends with Peter giving him the bite, and how the other man had lied to him about what he would turn into, and then ending with how Peter basically said he did not care about Stiles.

 

“Oh, I’m a Spark by the way.” Stiles ends his long winded rant with this, seemingly having forgotten to mention this earlier.

 

Christopher is unable to fathom about how much emotional pain this boy must be in. His best friend and father are avoiding him, one of them not even noticing that he was injured, and Peter saying he does not care about the boy, and lying to him. Christopher does not have to ask why Stiles is so hurt by the lying, because not only would anyone feel hurt by this, but also, multiple times through Stiles relaying what has happened in the past little while the boy mentions not being strong, or being weak. Christopher wants to say that the boy is not weak, that he is anything, but he also knows that it will not do much good since Stiles does not believe it himself, and so many people have just told Stiles time and time again that he is weak and defenseless, and good for nothing.

 

Christopher moves closer to Stiles, and puts an arm around the boy’s small shoulders, and brings him into his side. “I’m sorry that all this has happened to you, Stiles.”

 

The boy just nods his head, and leans further into Christophers side. “Thank you, but it won’t change anything, Mr. Argent.”

 

Christopher chuckles, “I think you’ve earned it to call me Chris, kid.”

 

Stiles looks up at Christopher, lips slightly curled up at the corners, “Alright, Chris.”

 

\------------

 

Stiles wakes up slowly, and arches his back, stretching it out, but when he does, he hears a soft huff from somewhere to his right. He flings his eyes open, and slowly turns towards the noise, only to see Chris, well, Chris’ chest. Stiles realizes that he is laying in the older man's side, his head pillowed on his chest. He quickly sits up, startling the man next to him, and he moves over so he is no longer right next to the man. Chris stretches his arms out, his shirt riding up slightly, before turning to look at Stiles.

 

Stiles sees a look of realization pass over the man's face, “Stiles…”

 

Stiles is startled when Chris abruptly gets off the couch, “I am so sorry, Stiles. I didn't mean to do that.”

 

Stiles’ confusion grows even more, making him ask, “What? What are you sorry for? What didn't you mean to do?”

 

Stiles stands up, leaving a few steps between him and Chris. The man quickly takes a step back, and brings his hands up in a placating gesture. “I know all of what he did to you, and I am sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”

 

This time it is Stiles that takes a step back. Chris knows what Gerard did, _all of what he did,_ everything that the old man did… oh god. Stiles breathes out deeply, trying to keep the images of that night from flashing in his mind. He clenches his hands into fists, short nails digging into his palms. He feels when his eyes change, like he does every time, and he tries to hide it from Chris. Stiles knows he does not have to hide them, but they still bring up bad feelings, bad emotions for him, reminding him that he is just as weak as he was before, and he will stay that way, he will _always_ be that way.

 

“Stiles.” He hears Chris say.

 

“I don't want to talk about it.” He really did not want to talk about it now, and he does not think he will ever want to talk about.

 

“Stiles,” He looks up and sees the older man take a deep breath, as if getting ready to say something more, but he cuts him off, not wanting to hear it.

 

“I said, I don't want to talk about it!” He raises his voice at the end, trying to get the message across to Chris, when he feels his hands grow hot.

 

Stiles begins to panic slightly, not having had found a way to stop the golden looking sparks, or a way to stop them before they happen. He starts shaking his hands out, willing them to cool off, but if anything, it simply makes it worse; it seems to almost make them hotter. This causes his panic to rise even more, because he does not know what to do, does not know how go make them stop; it also does not help that Chris is taking another step forward, followed by another. Stiles raises a hand slowly, in a gesture for the man to stay back, to not come any closer. It works for a moment, Chris halting in his steps. He lets out a slow exhale, feeling somewhat at ease, given the situation, when he sees the man stop in his tracks. But, all of that ease flies out of the window when the sparks make their appearance. He immediately puts his hand down, letting it fall to his side. Stiles watches as Chris moves forward, taking small steps towards him. He opens his mouth, ready to tell the man to stay away, when he feels his hands heat up like they never have before, so hot that it is almost burning him. He looks down at his hands and sees the sparks taking form, and flowing out from his fingers.

 

This time around, the sparks seem to be more golden, and much more brighter, they seem to have much more strength behind them. Part of Stiles feels happy that they are larger, that they are brighter, and seem to just be stronger, but the other part… the other part just has this overwhelming feeling to get away, to get out, to keep Chris safe. Now, he does not actually know what would happen if someone got hit by the sparks, but he definitely does not want to find out, especially with Chris. He can feel his eyes flare, the emerald green making another entrance, but this time it feels different. It is not an uncomfortable feeling, but he can definitely feel it a lot more than usual.

 

Stiles sees Chris looking at him, and he watches as the man begins to move forward again, making that intense panic spike. Stiles opens his mouth once more, to tell Chris to stop, to not come any closer, but, all that comes out is a high whine. Stiles is too worked up, his pulse racing, along with his heart, hands and boy visibly shaking, breath far too quick. He realizes too late that he is having a panic attack, as he begins to hyperventilate. He can normally, depending on the situation, stop the panic attacks before they begin, but this time, he did not even realize that he was having one. Chris takes those last few steps, closing the space between them. Stiles goes to back up, but Chris stops him with a hand wrapped around his forearm. He tries to jerk away from Chris again, so that he can keep the man safe.

 

“Stiles, it's okay.” Chris says to him, reaching out and grabbing his other arm with his free hand.

 

Stiles shakes his head quickly, and struggles even more to get out of the man's grip. “Stiles! It's okay, you're okay.”

 

“B-but, you-you’re n-not.” He manages to get out through his rough, quick breathing.

 

“You need to slow your breathing, Stiles, okay? Everything is okay.” Chris tries again, to ease Stiles’ panicking.

 

“I… I d-don’t want t-to h-hurt you.” Stiles is almost inconsolable at this point, desperate to not hurt the man in front of him, knowing that it will kill him if he did so.

 

“You won't hurt me, I know you won't.” Chris says with conviction.

 

Stiles is still not so sure. He has no control over this, over the sparks. He does not know what they do, he does not want to know what they do if that means hurting the man. Stiles lets out a soft cry when Chris just pulls him in close, hugging him into his chest. Stiles keeps his hands firmly down at his sides, making sure that they do not touch Chris. He hears Chris make a huffing sound, before the man runs his hands down his arms, grabbing them, before tugging on them to make Stiles wrap his arms around his back.

 

Christopher feels the boy tense up, far more than be thought possible, as he forced Stiles to hug him back. He needs the boy to know that he would not hurt him, and that everything is fine, and will be fine. He needs Stiles to calm down and breathe. It takes a while, but Stiles does loosen up, and put his hands on Christopher's back, pulling him in closer. Christopher has to fight to not flinch, the boy's hands are still very hot, the intense heat coming through the shirt, and almost burning his back.

 

The heat emitting from Stiles’ hands eventually dies down, and the boy eventually just melts into Christopher's embrace. He runs his hands up and down the smaller boy's back, trying to keep Stiles calm, not wanting a repeat of just a few minutes ago. Christopher pulls back slightly, hands still resting on Stlies’ back, and just takes in the boy's appearance. He looks almost as rough as he did yesterday, with the bloodshot eyes, the large, purple bags, the pale skin, and the shaking hands, but he also looks significantly better than yesterday as well. The boy is not quite as pale, the bags not as purple, and his body is not shaking this time, just his hands.

 

Christopher lets a small smile take over his face, smiling down at Stiles. The boy smiles back, just a small little one, barely reaching his eyes. Christopher sighs quietly, not really knowing what to do now, because although Stiles looks better, he is clearly not okay. And that is all he wants to do, he just wants to make the boy feel better. He wants to make him happy. He wants to make the boy know that there is someone who cares about him, someone who will be there for him.

 

Christopher watches as Stiles leans back into him, laying his head down on his chest, before saying, “Did I hurt you?”

 

“No, you didn't hurt me Stiles.” Christopher replies, ignoring the burning sensations he feels on his back. “I knew you wouldn't hurt me.”

 

Stiles lifts his head off Christopher's chest, his eyes glowing bright emerald. “I did hurt you. Why are you lying?”

 

Christopher is taken aback, he did not think that knowing if someone is lying was a power that Sparks had. “I didn't want to worry you, Stiles. You were so worried about hurting me.”

 

Stiles pulls out of Christopher's arms, “I hate it when people lie to me, and that was no reason to lie to me.”

 

Christopher feels like a little kid, getting reprimanded for sticking his hand in the cookie jar. “I really am sorry, Stiles. I promise I won't lie to you again.”

 

Stiles stares at him for a moment, before nodding his head, “Good, now turn around.”

 

Christopher almost asks why, but with the look on the boy's face, added by the still glowing eyes, he decides to just turn around to appease him. Christopher hears a loud choked off gasp when the boy sees the burn marks on his shirt. He feels when Stiles gently, oh so gently brushes his fingers across the marks, before laying both palms down on the spots. Christopher is confused, but that is only until he feels the slight pain gradually dissipate, before going away for good. He quickly turns around and faces a very looking Stiles with a look of surprise on his own face. The next thing he knows, Stiles’ knees buckle. Before the boy can hit the ground, Christopher catches him. He quickly moves the boy over to the couch.

 

“Are you alright?” He asks, incredibly nervous, not knowing what just happened.

 

“I healed you.” Stiles whispers, looking up at the man with a look of awe.

 

“Yes, you did,” Christopher says, beaming. “I'm very proud of you. But, are you okay?”

 

Stiles nods his head slowly, “I'm really tired, Chris. Can I lay down?”

 

Christopher nods his head quickly, and Stiles just lays down, putting his head in Christopher's lap. “Thank you, Chris.”

 

“For what?” Chris asks, running his hands softly through the boy's hair.

 

“For being proud of me.” With that Stiles closes his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.

 

\------------

 

Christopher has just finished dropping Stiles off at his house, Stiles needing to grab a change of clothes, and to leave a note for his father. He does not really understand why Stiles feels the need to leave a note for the man, since the Sheriff has not been home in days, has not left the station, and he told the boy this, in a much nicer way, in a gentler way, but he still insisted. And of course Christopher did it, he is pretty sure that he will ever be able to say no to the boy. He doesn't think he would ever want to.

 

He pulls up to the loft, and parks haphazardly in a parking space, only expecting to be here a few minutes. Christopher takes out his phone, and sees a text from Stiles, saying that he is running late, and that his father came home. He replies back saying that it's okay, and that he will wait for him in the loft. He turns the car off and gets out, shutting the door.

 

He enters the loft building, and heads up the stairs, taking his time in hopes that Stiles will show up soon, so he does not have to interact with Peter much. It is not that he hates the man, he just cannot stand him. Peter hurt Stiles, intentionally or not, he still hurt the boy, and although he knows Peter did it for a good reason, be cannot help but to still be angry, furious even, for him killing his sister, Kate. Now, Christopher knows his sister was evil, but he cannot help but to be angry at the man who killed her. Also, there is something just so… hateable about the man, maybe it is his better than everyone attitude, the way he looks down at everyone. Or, it could be the fact that he is a werewolf. Christopher no longer actively hunts wolves without a reason, but that does not mean he likes them any more than he did before, he hates them all the same as when his actions were clouded over by Gerard. But, now, he will not go kill any of them without a solid, justified reason, and unfortunately hurting Stiles is not exactly what one would call a justified reason.

 

He takes the last few steps to the closed loft door, much slower than before. There is no sign of Stiles yet, and Christopher really does not want to go in there, already knowing that Peter is in their, having seen the man's expensive sports car out front. He heaves out a sigh, and slides open the large door, and closes it behind him. There is no sign of Peter, but that does not bother him, and he just makes himself comfortable on the couch in the large open space, putting his feet up on the table. He just sits there, looking around the loft, taking in everything, much like what he does whenever he goes anywhere, looking for any exits, any possible dangers, anything he could use against someone.

 

He continues to do this until he feels his phone buzz. He looks down at it, and sees that Stiles says he has just left. He immediately knows that something is wrong. The boy never texts like that, never keeps things sort and to the point. He always sends a paragraph, at least, when he texts him, but this time, it is barely a full sentence. He quickly takes his feet off the table and stands up, ready to go to Stiles, meet him halfway, or something, but that is when he hears footsteps thundering across the hallway upstairs. Christopher quickly turns around, just in time to see a wolfed-out Peter Hale crouch down and jump all the way across the staircase, landing on his feet.

 

Peter knows the second that the Argent man steps into the loft building, the scent of wolfsbane and gun powder invading his nostrils. His hands clench into fists, he is supposed to be seeing Stiles today, he is supposed to be apologizing to the boy. He is going to be surprising him with a few books he has found on Sparks, more specifically, the markings on Stiles’ body. But, here comes Christopher Argent. Peter is not happy at all by the man's presence, just wanting the man to leave, and preferably never come back.

 

As the man comes closer to the loft, moving very slowly making Peter roll his eyes in exasperation, Peter catches another scent permeating from the man. At first, Peter cannot quite place what the scent is, but it is familiar, oh so familiar, and it intermingles with Christopher's, almost like he bathed in it. Peter's eyes widen first, in shock, then they narrow into slits, with anger. He drops the book that he was reading, not caring where it lands, and practically catapults himself out of the room that he claimed for himself. When he gets to the top of the staircase, he feels his fangs lengthen, and his claws extend. The scents of _Chistopher and Stiles_ float through the air, and up towards Peter. He lets out a low growl, crouches down, and jumps clean across the staircase.

 

He stalks forward, a growl still coming from his mouth. He watched as Christopher just stands there, a stoic expression on his face; it just makes all the more mad. Once he is right in front of him, his breath faning over the man's face, he grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and slams him into the nearest object, which happens to be one of the pillars. The man still does not flinch, does not move a muscle, making Peter's blood practically boil with how angry he is. At this point he is simply running on pure instincts, whether they are his own, or the wolf's, he does not know, or really care at this point.

 

“Why. Do. You. Smell. Like. Stiles.” Peter's voice comes out low and deep, a growl just behind the surface.

 

“I don't think that is really any of your business.” Christopher says, with no emotions slipping into his voice.

 

Peter yanks the man forward by his shirt, and slams him into the pillar. It is his business, that boy is his business. He does deserve to know, because the boy, Stiles, is his. He is not Christopher's, he is no one else's but Peter's. Stiles will always be his, no matter what. Even in a time like this, in a time where Stiles is upset with him, the boy will still be his, Peter will still care about him. And it physically pains him to know that Stiles smells like Christopher, just like it pains him to smell Stiles on the older man.

 

Peter once again, in a much louder tone of voice, nearly yelling, demands, “Why do you smell like Stiles?!”

 

“It is not up to me to tell you, it is up to Stiles to tell you, Peter.” Christopher says firmly.

 

Peter, he is simply not having it. He wants the answer, no, he _needs_ the answer, _now_. So, he does one of the foolproof methods that generally get the answers he wants, he uses violence. Peter tightens his grip on the man's shirt, and yanks him forward, just to slam him back into the pillar, and this time, he taps into his supernatural strength, just to pack a bigger punch. He does this once more, a satisfied smile taking over his face when Christopher winces in pain. Peter gives the man a chance to say anything, granted, it was only a few seconds, maybe even less than five, before he moves on to another method. He roars directly in the man's face. After Peter does this, he feels a deep set sense of satisfaction when he sees a slightly shocked look on Christopher's face.

 

Peter watches as the man takes a deep breath, “I just ran into Stiles at the store, and I had noticed that he did not look well, at all.”

 

Peter is expecting more, some of the frustration melting away, because he is finally getting some answers, but that is all the man says. “Tell me all of it, Argent, or I can do the same thing to you that I did to your sister.”

 

Peter knows it is a low, low, blow. But, he is willing to do anything to get what he wants, even if it means threatening the hunter. “Fine, Hale. I'll tell you everything.”

 

Peter should have known that it was not going to be anything good when Chrisopher just gave up, he should have known better. As Christopher goes through the events of the last two days Peter feels himself grow angrier. With each new thing, Peter swears he feels his fangs lengthen even more, swears he feels his claws extend even farther. He continues to get even more angry, the fact that the man would dare to put his hands on this boy, makes his blood boil, makes his eyes flash red. Suddenly, his anger simply just dissipates, completely disappearing until all that is left is a feeling of emptiness, and dejection. Peter does not know what brought this sudden change in emotions, like a flip was switched, but he does know that this feels thousands of times worse than the anger had felt.

 

When Christopher finishes, Peter just lets his hands fall to his sides, claws no longer extended, fangs no longer there, having receded back into his gums. He takes a step back, finally getting out of Christopher's face. Now he knows why he feels much worse than be did when be was angry, a sense of betrayal has sank in. He feels like Stiles has betrayed him by going to the other man, the man whose sister killed almost all of his family. But, he also knows that the boy would never hurt him, in anyway, shape or form, that even though he is highly upset with Peter, that Stiles would never intentionally injure him, physically or mentally. And Peter knows, god he knows, that it is not rational for him to feel betrayed like this, that he should not feel this strongly about Stiles talking to someone else other than him, but that sense of possesiveness simply will not leave.

 

Peter steps all the way away from the man, turning on his heel, and stepping over to the large window. He can feel all of the emotions swirling underneath his skin betrayal, sadness, dejection, and failure. Betrayal, because of Stiles going to the man's whose family caused the murdering of his family. Sadness and dejection, because he was the reason Stiles went to Christopher, he drove the boy away, and god is he hoping it isn't permanent. And failure, failure, because he feels like he has failed the boy. Failed him by not being who he need, what he needed. Peter continues to stare at the window, not really seeing anything. He knows Christopher is still here, standing in the same spot Peter had shoved him, where Peter had basically threatened him. But, he pays no mind to the man, not caring about him, at least, right now. Peter could easily kill the man right now, seeing as he has no use for him anymore, but something, more like someone is holding him back from doing so.

 

He hears the telltale sound of the rusty blue jeep. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and opens them back up slowly, trying to get himself under any semblance of control over his emotions. With each step that the boy takes, his heart beats just a got faster, his hands clench into fists just that much tighter, and his eyes flash just that much more red. By the time Stiles pulls open the loft door, Peter is almost fully wolfed out, the only thing holding him back from changing fully, is that he does not know if he will have enough control to not hurt the boy. Peter hears Stiles’ soft footsteps, they are almost as if he does not know if he is able to be here. It hurts Peter to know that the boy feels that way, that he does not feel welcome here, but Peter knows he was the one to bring that doubt into Stiles’ mind. He hears Stiles quietly ask Christopher if Peter is alright, but Christopher does not say anything.

 

“The books are on the table.” Peter does not mean for his voice to come out so cold, so detached, but it does anyway.

 

Peter knows he has made a mistake when he hears the boy's mouth close with a click, and when the smell of a dejected acceptance wafts through the air. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, he wants to fix it, he wants to make Stiles feel better, make sure the boy knows that he cares about him. But, he just does not know how, he does not know what to say, what to do, he does not know how to do anything. He feels so defeated, he just wants to do something, but it seems as if anything he does causes issues, right now, it seems like he is doing more harm than good.

 

Christopher sighs as Peter simply dismisses the boy. He walks over to Stiles, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He feels horrible for telling Peter now, he wishes he could take it all back, and say that it was a lie. Christopher feels Stiles tense up, when Peter does not say anything more, and the boy simply walks out the loft door, leaving the books behind. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, before he goes over to where the books are, and picks them all up. Before he goes to leave, he looks over at Peter, who is watching as Stiles exits the building, and heads to the jeep.

 

“Hale, you're the one who wanted to know what had happened, so I told you, sure in your twisted mind you may think you have the right to be angry, but you actually don't. Stiles did nothing wrong, I'm the one who went up to him, I'm the one who initiated the interaction, but that is only because he looked just so bad. I was there, and he just needed someone to talk to. So, he talked to me. You can't take this out on him. He can't handle being pushed aside anymore, he just can't. You need to fix this, before something even worse happens.” With that, Christopher walks away, casting one last glance at the man, who tensed up during him talking. He may not like Hale, but Stiles does, Stiles needs the man, so, he will make sure Stiles gets him.

 

Stiles quickly exits the loft, not able to deal with it anymore. He is not able to deal with the fact that as if right now, the only person who even remotely cares about him is Chris, and even with that man, he still has his doubts and fears and worries. He does not even know what he did wrong, he does not know what caused Peter to push him away, again, after the first time. He does not know why he would push him away a second time. Was it to just show to Stiles that he really just does not mean anything? Was it to prove, once again, that Peter does not care about him, despite the fact of how obvious it was the first time? Stiles just does not know, and for the first time in a very long time, he does not wish to know, he does not want to find out the answers, the truth.

 

By the time Stiles has made it to his jeep, his eyes are stinging with unshed tears, and he just wants to go lie down for a while, a few days maybe. He feels the first tear fall, and that is when he just loses it, much like when he ran into Chris at the store. Loud, wet, sobs wrak his body. His whole body is shaking, and he cannot seem to get a decent amount of air into his lungs to breathe properly. He begins to lose touch with his surroundings, cutting himself off, unintentionally, from the outside world. He does not even notice Chris rushing, practically running, over to him. He does not feel Chris’ large hands cup both of his cheeks, trying to grab his attention, and when that did not work, the incessant shaking of his shoulders.

 

When he finally comes to, he is no longer standing, he is sitting on the pavement, body pressed against Chris’. He makes a questioning noise, it coming out more like a whine. Chris just tightens the arm draped over his shoulders, and pulls him in closer. Stiles looks up at Chris, very confused as to what is happening right now, because the last thing he can remember is leaving the loft, and breaking down in the parking lot, but that's it. Everything after that, he does not remember. He looks up at the man, his eyes meeting Chris’. Chris looks not so good, he looks as if he has aged years.

 

“Are you okay, Chris?” Stiles asks him, concern for the man outweighing the confusion.

 

Chris let's out a humorless laugh, “You never fail to surprise me, Stiles. You are once again putting someone else before you, even though you are going through this.”

 

“I-I just don't really care about myself anymore. I don't really care what happens to me.” Stiles answers honestly.

 

“Well, I'll just care enough about you for the both of us.” Stiles feels like he could cry again. Here is this man, who seemingly came out of no where, this man who actually seems to enjoy being near him. This man who cares more for him than Stiles ever has for himself, and will ever care for himself.

 

“Thank you, dad.”

 

Christopher almost jumps back, surprised that the boy would see him as a fatherly figure, but, that is until he actually thinks back to everything that has happened the past two days. He thinks back to the way the boy looked when he first saw him in the store, and he thinks about how he looked more… alive after just a little bit. Now, he thinks about how angry, devastated, and the like, because of how Stiles looks right now, because of how _broken_ the boy looks. He thinks about how he just wants to fix it, and hurt anyone who dares to hurt Stiles again.

 

Stiles looks up at Christopher, eyes still slightly glazed over, seemingly unaware of what he has said. Christopher makes the decision to not bring it up to him right now, maybe not ever. He looks down at Stiles, and smiles slightly, “You're very welcome, Stiles.”He will get Stiles and the books into his car soon, but for now, he just stays right where he is, arm around the boy's small shoulders.

 

Back in the loft, Peter has heard the whole conversation, heard all of Stiles’ break down and panic attack. He is the cause of it, he is the cause of the pain the boy is feeling. It pains him in such a monumental way, he is absolutely devastated that he has, yet again, hurt Stiles, hurt his boy. He continues to watch the interaction, and his heart breaks when Stiles calls Christopher dad. Peter knows that his boy's father is not around much, but he never knew it was this bad, he never knew that Stiles was being neglected. He wants nothing more than to go to the boy and comfort him, to take Christopher's place, but he also knows that he cannot. Not because he does not want to, but because he does not wish to push the boy anymore than he already has. Peter vows to himself that he will do better, that he will no longer hurt Stiles, that instead, he will be the one the boy can go to, the one he will seek out in a time like this.

 

\------------

 

It is almost a full week after Peter practically threw Stiles out of the loft, and Stiles is finally back in there, just sitting on the couch next to Derek, who is quietly reading. Stiles is jittery and on edge, bouncing both of his legs up and down, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He knows he looks like a mess, hair in all different directions, pale skin, and heavy dark bags underneath bloodshot eyes, and to top it all off, his eyes have been non-stop flashing green all morning. But, it is not his fault, he swears that someone is following him, that someone is watching him right now, and has been for days now. Ever since that day in his house, where he kept finding his phone in places he never put it, and the door and a window wide open, even though he knows he shut them, he has been constantly feeling someone watching him.

 

Ever since Stiles has told Chris, the man has barely left his side, one, because Stiles has been practically living there due to the fact that his father is absent all the time now, and two, because Chris just will not let Stiles out of his sight. Stiles is very grateful for this, he finally feels like someone cares about him, and he really wishes the man was here right now. Chris had insisted this morning that Stiles goes alone to this pack meeting of sorts, but only because, Chris does not want to cause any more problems. Stiles of course, does not agree, but he went on his own anyway, not wanting to disappoint Chris. And, it is not like Stiles does not know that he has to be here, especially when both Peter and Derek told him he _has_ to come, he only answered Derek, but not out of spite, but out of the fact that he just cannot deal with Peter and the feelings he gets when he is near the man, the main one being dejection.

 

As Stiles continues to sit there next to Derek, he swears he can feel someone watching him. At first he looks over at Derek, thinking, hoping that it is him who is watching him, but of course it is not, Derek is still staring intently at his book. Stiles takes a slow deep breath, trying not to alert the werewolf that something might be wrong, but the increasing twitching and fidgeting, and the faster heartbeat must have alerted him that something is wrong. He watches as Derek's head flies up, eyes glowing blue, and as he looks around the room.

 

Stiles’ eyes connect with Derek's, and the man asks, “Are you alright?”

 

Stiles contemplates telling him the truth, but in the end he just decides to say, “I just didn't take my medicine this morning.”

 

It is not a lie but it is also not the full truth, and Derek must have been able to tell, with the way he was staring at Stiles. “That's not the whole truth.”

 

Stiles sighs, but before he can say anything, the loft door slides open, and in walks Jackson. Jackson closes the door behind him, and sits down on the coffee table in front of Stiles. At first he does not notice Jackson, to focused on the dread and panic slowly creeping in, the feeling of someone watching him even more intense. His eyes continue to dart around the room, looking out the window, up the stairs, in the kitchen and he repeats that over and over again. Until, Jackson's face enters his line of vision, cutting off his view of the room. Stiles almost jerks back, needing to find out who is watching him, but Jackson brings him out of his head.

 

“Stiles, are you okay?” Stiles leans back slightly, shocked at the concern in Jackson's voice. He does not think he has heard him sound so concerned,  especially for him, since having met him. Stiles nods his head slightly, knowing that if he says anything the two of them will be able to tell he is lying.

 

Stiles can feel not one, not two, but _four_ pairs of eyes on him. He lets his magic go out slightly, trying to feel out who the other two are. Stiles’ magic can only pick up on one of them, and that one is Peter, and he is up at the top of the steps. But the other one, he cannot tell who it is, and he so desperately needs to. Stiles can feel Jackson's concern practically wafting off of him, he can feel Derek's concern and confusion. He can also slightly feel Peter's emotions, but there are too many, too much that he cannot differentiate between any of them. Stiles can feel his eyes begin to glow, and he hears two intakes of breaths, one from Jackson, and the other from Derek. The slight, not burning feeling, but uncomfortable feeling is more intense than it has been the last few days, causing Stiles to squeeze his eyes shut and press the heel of his hands into his eyes, trying to get them to stop glowing.

 

Stiles feels warm, large hands wrap softly around his small wrists, and gently pull them away from his eyes. “Stiles, it's okay, you can open your eyes.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, he does not want to see the look on Jackson or Derek's face, knowing it will be on of disgust or pity. And, Stiles just cannot handle that right now, he cannot handle anything else on top of being followed, and stalked. The hands still holding onto his wrists tighten their grip just slightly, as if creating an anchor for him. Giving him something to hold onto. It does not help him, but the thought of someone wanting to help him helps him open his eyes, even though they are still glowing bright emerald. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Peter gazing at him in concern, sitting right where Jackson previously sat. Stiles pulls his hands away from the man, still unsure of his welcome here with Peter.

 

Peter can smell the boy's unease, his panic, his dread; he has been able to since Stiles walked in. All he has wanted to do since the boy walked in was to go to him, but he was not sure about how he would react. Peter almost gets up and walks away when Stiles pulls his hands back, but then he remembers what happened the last time he saw the boy, he remembers how he had treated the boy, even though Stiles had done nothing wrong. Peter knows he has to fix this, and fast, because he knows that the boy will not say what is wrong unless he knows he is not intruding on anything.

 

Peter opens his mouth to ask if everything is okay, but Stiles beats him to it, “I'm fine.”

 

Jackson and Derek share a look, clearly knowing that Stiles is lying, but neither of them say anything. Peter just nods his head, “Okay, Stiles, then we can go ahead and get started then.”

“What do you mean you think someone is following you?” Derek asks.

 

Stiles sighs, “It's exactly what I just said, someone is following me.” Peter listens to the boy's heartbeat, and not once does it stutter, not once does it skip a beat, so he knows Stiles is not lying, but… but he just has not seen or smelt anything out of the ordinary. He desperately wants to believe him, but there is a large possibility that because the boy thinks someone is following him then he does not think he is lying, leading to a steady heart beat. Peter is ready to tell Stiles this, but before he can, Jackson says it first.

 

“I think that _you_ think someone is following you. It could also just be that you're maybe not listening to what your magic is telling you correctly.”

 

Peter can see the moment that Stiles closes himself off, he can see the moment that Stiles just gives up. “You guys don't believe me.”

 

Stiles quickly stands up, “I'm just going to go. It is obvious that none of you believe me, and that none of you are going to do anything to help me.”

 

With that, Stiles exits the loft, and heads for his jeep. He just cannot stand to be in there any longer. Stiles knows that he is not crazy, that he is not making this up, but none of them believe him. Stiles also knows that he maybe should have waited and let them talk, but he just knows that they would not believe him, no matter what he did, or what he said. Once in the jeep, he quickly drives away, not wanting to be there any longer, and he does not look back. As he is driving, back to Chris’ house, just needing to be with the man right now, the feeling of someone watching him just runs down his spine, making him shiver, and speed up. That feeling continues nonstop for the next few minutes until it increases so much, that it feels like whoever is watching him is _right there_ , right on top of him. It gets so bad that Stiles just pulls off to the side of the road, and puts it in park. His heart is racing, and he is hyperventilating, the air simply not reaching his lungs fast enough, or with enough air. His vision blurs slightly, and it takes a few minutes for his vision to clear, but when it does, he wishes it never did.

 

Right in front of the jeep, maybe a couple hundred feet away there is a man just standing there, staring at Stiles. He starts breathing faster, much too fast to be normal, and his vision blurs once more. Stiles can also feel his eyes glowing, this time uncontrollably, in random intervals, with no semblance of control. He feels his hands heat up, much past how they were when he created the flames in his palms. Stiles is having a full blown panic attack, his hands are shaking, his whole body is shaking, he is pretty sure there are tears running down his cheeks, but it can also be sweat, he is not quite sure, and his magic is out of control. It is causing the sparks to shoot out of his hands occasionally, randomly a little flame will burst out, and his favorite is when random things in his car just start to float.

 

This continues for another few minutes, until somehow Stiles is able to calm himself down. When he does this, he looks back out the windshield, having closed his eyes earlier, and he does not see the man anymore. This helps ease some of his panic, but it also makes more, makes him more nervous. Stiles feels like crying again, he feels like… he does not really know what he feels like anymore. He feels much like that morning that Scott came after him, he feels almost empty. Stiles knows he has to get back to Chris, and fast, because so far, he is the only one who has ever been able to get him out of this headspace. Stiles takes the car out of park on autopilot, and he drives himself all the way to Chris’ house. When he gets there, he is not quite sure how he even got there, not remembering anything about the drive over. He barely remembers to turn the car off, before he stumbles his way up to the home. Stiles does not even knock on the door, he just pulls the door open, and goes to where he knows Chris is, the study. Once in there, Stiles barely looks over at the man, before he just collapses on the couch in the study. Stiles can hear Chris saying his name, asking if he is okay, but he ignores him, all in favor for just closing his eyes, too overwhelmed with the events of today, and just falls to sleep.

 

\------------

 

\-------------

 

He watches from afar as the young man climbs out of the beaten, rusty, and old blue jeep. He watches as the man's lips part, and let out a loud huff as he leans against the car, his back towards the loft building. The corners of his lips curve up, just slightly, to form a fond smile as the younger man’s scent changes due to the use of his Spark. He breathes in deeply, the rich, oaky scent of smoke and pine needles dancing through the air. The older man lets his eyes slip closed as the scent grows stronger, only opening his eyes once the smell begins to die off, and a soft groan leaves the boys mouth. His smile widens as the young man, in obvious annoyance, begins grumbling to himself.

 

“Of course he wouldn’t be here, even though he’s the one who called me here.”

 

The older man continues to watch the younger as he pulls himself away from the, if he is being honest, hideous, blue jeep and aggressively pulls out his phone. His eyes follow the quick movement of the pale, lithe hand holding the phone move to his face. He watches as the grip on the phone tightens in irritation as he is sent to voicemail.

 

“Listen here Peter Hale, you told me to go to the loft, but you don’t even have the decency to show up?” The young man says, his voice gradually growing in volume throughout the sentence.

 

The boy does not notice the soft, but determined footsteps of his onlooker, he does not notice, or sense the looming presence behind him, he simply just continues to berate Peter.

 

“I have had a very long, horrible week, and I just want to go home and go to sleep, okay? I mean how hard is it for you to be at the loft, you’re always there just lurking on the-” His soon to be long winded tangent is cut off as a loud gasp escapes his lips, the result of the large hand now resting on one of his slender shoulders.

 

The older man watches as the boy whirls around to face him, his honey eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, and breathe coming out rapidly. The man’s eyes traveled across the boys face, he took in the wide brown eyes, the mole dotted skin, the upturned nose, and the full lips; he thought the young man in front of him was absolutely exquisite. His eyes trailed down further, and he takes in pale expanse of the boys neck. He finds himself inching closer to him as if the younger mans rich, oaky, woodsy scent was calling to him.

 

He slowly raises his hand, and brushes it across the other man’s cheek. He watches as the boy freezes in fear, fear that he can smell, fear that is simply just pouring off him at this point. He traces the moles dotted along his lower cheek and jawline with the pad of his thumb. He drags his hand lower, and gently, softly, runs the tips of his fingers up and down the now shaking boys neck, scenting him. He lets his eyes trail further down to where his hand is, he watches the movement of his hand slowly moving up and down his pale skin, sometimes passing over a speckle of moles.

 

“You, my sweet boy, must be Mieczyslaw.” The man whispers, just loud enough for the frightened boy to hear.

 

The young man open and closes his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but not knowing quite what he wants to say. He breathes in a deep breathe, and raises his eyes to meet the man in front of him. He makes a move to step away, but is stopped by the hand moving to the back of his neck to essentially hold him in place. He gulps as the older man moves impossibly closer to him, their chests touching, their noses only mere inches apart.

 

“Don’t move, my darling boy.” The boy shaking in his grip, if it is even possible, begins to shake even more, his heart beating practically out of his chest, which is moving up and down in an unusual pattern.

 

He lowers his head, and places it in the crook of the boys neck, where his head and shoulder meets. He gently drags his face over, and over, and over the pale skin, that is stretched out just perfectly for him. He breathes in a deep breath of the boys now altered scent, his and the beautiful boys in front of him, mixing together in the most immaculate way. It simply makes him crave to be near the boy all that much more; he never wants to leave this boy alone again, never wants to leave his side now that he has him right here for the taking. Yet, he knows that know is not the time, if he took the boy for himself right now, it would ruin all of his plans.

 

He lifts his head, just slightly, and runs his nose up and down the expanse of the boys neck, before finally stopping right beside his ear, and he says, “I look forward to the next time we can meet, darling.”

 

At that, he steps out of the stock still, boys space, spares one more long, deep gaze, and a deep breath of the boys scent, before turning around and walking back the way he came. He could not wait until he saw his sweet, darling boy once more, and then he would take what is his.

 

Stiles watches with wide eyes, and a fast beating heart, as the man retreats into the alleyway, and rounds a corner. Even after Stiles cannot see the other man anymore he still does not move. It is at least five minutes before he can get his brain back online enough for him to make his way into the building. The cool air in the building washes over him, cooling down the areas the other man touched, scented, the areas that felt like they were on fire. He walks right past the elevator, deciding to use the stairs; hoping to burn of the adrenaline that is crackling just underneath his skin.

 

Taking two steps at time, he quickly runs up the stairs, shaking hands gripping the railings, trying to get as far away from the parking lot as possible. By the time he reaches the loft door, Stiles is shaking even more than he was before, a panic attack brewing just underneath the surface. He ranks the iron door open, not bothering to shut it back, and makes his way into the main part of the spacious loft. Chest heaving up and down, he makes eye contact with Derek, who shot up off the couch the second he heard Stiles’ rapid breathing and heartbeat.

 

“Stiles, what happened?” Derek asks as he gently grabs Stiles by one of his arms, and carefully maneuvers him to the couch he was previously sitting on.

 

Stiles closes his eyes, trying to control his breathing, trying to focus on anything other than the now inevitable panic attack. Derek moves closer to Stiles, and takes his hand into one of his larger ones, and places it over his heart. Derek does not say anything, other than, “Just focus on my heart beat, Stiles. Focus on this, what is happening right now, not whatever happened to cause this, ok? I know you can do it, Stiles. You just have to breathe with me, and match your heartbeat to mine.”

 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Stiles manages to ward of the panic attack, with the help of Derek, essentially stopping it before it got out of hand. He pulls his hand out from underneath Derek’s, and slowly opens his eyes. Derek smiles slightly, and throws an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and brings him into his side. Stiles wiggles around for a minute, making himself comfortable. They sit in silence for a few moments, before Derek repeats the questioned he asked Stiles when he first came in.

 

“What happened, Stiles?” Derek asks, staring down intently at the boy.

 

Stiles lets out a sigh, and says, “Do you remember how I said I thought I was being followed, being watched?”

 

Derek nods, “Yes, but we all just thought you were stressing out about your spark growing.” He pauses looking down, and then his head snaps back up and he turns his body towards Stiles’, “Oh god, Stiles, you weren’t stressing out about that, it was like when you just knew that Matt was controlling Jackson. I am so sor-”

 

Stiles cuts him off with a quiet huff, “Derek, no one ever believes the feelings I get. I didn’t expect any of you to start now.”

 

Derek sighs, he knew that he should have believed Stiles, somehow he was never wrong, yet he never listened when he said he knew he was being followed, that he knew it was Matt, that he knew Lydia was not the Kanima. He was never wrong, he always knew before everyone else, and yet no one listened, not even Peter. Derek knew that he would have to bring this up to Peter, and he was dreading the conversation.

 

“Can you at least tell me what happened?” Derek asks softly, not wanting to spook the boy.

 

Stiles gets this, far away look in his eyes, like he is no longer in the room, like he is not next to Derek at all. He sits there, not moving a muscle, no minute little twitches, nothing at all. He knows that he is most likely worrying Derek, but he cannot help it, cannot bring himself back into himself enough to explain the earlier events to him. He feels a movement beside him, but he ignores it, he has this feeling that he is forgetting something.

 

“Stiles, are you okay? If you can’t talk about it, it’s fine, okay?” Stiles finally gains some form of recognition in his eyes.

 

“I couldn’t _feel_ him, Derek.” He whispers, sounding distraught. “Even when I turned around, and he was right in front of me, I couldn’t feel him. This has never happened before.”

 

Stiles looks up with watery eyes as he fills Derek in on what happened not too long ago. Throughout the retelling Derek is silent, taking in the way Stiles’ scent changes with the different emotions that he feels. He takes in the way Stiles’ eyes never focus on any one thing for too long, how Stiles’ voice grows softer the longer he talks. Derek has to hold back a few growls, knowing that it will not do the boy any good, knowing that it will just work him into another panic with how on edge he is right now.

 

Stiles takes a deep breath before saying the the thing he had been avoiding the whole time, “Derek… He knew my _real_ name.”

 

Derek’s head shoots up, and looks directly at Stiles, “No one knows your real name outside of us, and none of us can even pronounce it, let alone spell it.”

 

Derek was growling now, not only had this man _scent marked_ Stiles, but he had been following, _stalking_ , him. He let the growl trail off, and opened his mouth ready to ask Stiles more about what happened, but, before he could, he heard heavy footfalls storming up the staircase. He quickly clamped his mouth shut, it was Peter, and there is no doubt that he knows something happened. He most likely smelt it when he got out of his car, he could have most likely smelt the combined scent of Stiles and the other man.

 

Stiles quickly looks up at Derek, the oaky scent of smoke and pine needles moving through the air, and asks, “Peter already knows, doesn’t he?”

 

Derek simply just nods his head in affirmation. He brings one hand to one of Stiles’ lithe ones, and squeezes gently before standing up and moving speedily to the loft door, pulling it open, hoping to avoid another broken door due to the angry alpha. Derek backs away from the entryway slightly, and glances back at Stiles. He has stood up, and is staring at where Peter will be coming in through any minute now.

 

Stiles waits with bated breath as Peter rushes in, Stiles’ cell phone in hand. Stiles’ eyes zeroed in on the phone in Peter’s tight grip, in Stiles’ quick escape he must have dropped his phone. Yet, that was not the worst part, the worst was the voicemail, that by the way Peter is staring at Stiles had indeed been sent. Stiles looks down at the ground, not really in the mood for Peter to be irate with him over his angry voicemail.

 

Stiles watches at Derek gives him a small, reasurring smile, and goes up stairs to give him and Peter some privacy. He looks back over at Peter, who is walking closer to him. When he is only a few steps away, right next to the short coffee table, Peter drops Stiles’ phone onto it. The noise of the object hitting the table resonates throughout the room. Stiles jerks back, and opens his mouth to say something, but Peter beats him to it.

 

“Who was it?” Peter asks with a bite to his words. Peter watches as confusion flashes over the boys face, and he rolls his eyes. “The voicemail, Stiles. Who was there with you?”

 

The older man watches Stiles shuffle his feet back and forth, and as he casts his eyes down to the floor. Peter waits patiently, well, patiently enough, as Stiles tries to come up with an answer, any answer. The boy opens and snaps his mouth shut a few times, before letting out a loud sigh and flopping onto the couch. Stiles puts his head in his hands, and just sits there. Peter loses some of the anger that he is holding onto, and sits next to the boy, close enough that he knows he is there, but far enough away so they are not touching.

 

He almost missed Stiles’ answer, he whispers it so quietly that if Peter was a human he would have missed it. “I don’t know, Peter. I don’t know who it was.” The boy takes a deep breath before continuing, “I couldn’t even sense him, it was like he came out of nowhere.”

 

Stiles looks up then, eyes connecting with Peter’s. He recounts everything that happened in the parking lot, telling it in the same way he had with Derek, but this time, there was more emotion in his voice, and a few tears in his eyes, which were threatening to pool over and fall down his cheeks. When he starts to tell Peter about how he was scent marked, he stumbles over every other word, especially when Peter starts emitting a low, deep growl, one that he can feel more than hear. By the end, Stiles just wants to curl in on himself, let the ground swallow him whole, or something, because Peter has not said a word since Stiles started, has not moved, and has not looked away from Stiles.

 

“Peter, I know what you’re going to say, okay? I don’t need a lecture about how I should have been able to defend myself, or whatever you’re going to yell at me about. I-” Stiles feels his throat close up slightly, and the tears that were threatening to fall finally run down his cheeks. “That’s not what I need right now, Peter. I don’t think you are capable of giving me what I need right now, so I think I’m just going to leave. We can talk about whatever you wanted to talk about tomorrow.”

 

Stiles stands up, and he does not dare to spare a glance at Peter, he just cannot do it. He steps around Peter’s legs, and before he can make it even a few, short steps, a large, warm hand wraps around his thin wrist. He quickly turns around to face Peter with wide, watery eyes. He looks down at where Peter is holding him and back up at him. Stiles thinks that Peter is just going to yell, lecture, or belittle him, so he tries to pull his arm out of the other mans grip.

 

Peter tightens his grip on Stiles’ wrist, stopping the boy in his tracks. Peter knew Stiles was right, knew that he was unable to give Stiles what he needs, but he also knows that the boy did not want to be alone, that he can not be alone right now. He was mentally smacking himself, he knew he should have done something when the boy began smelling like deep, deep exhaustion, fear, paranoia, but he also knew that even if he would have done something then it most likely have not changed anything. Stiles would not have believed nothing was going on until he saw that for himself, it was just who he was. Yet, he also knew that with everyone saying that there was nothing wrong, that there was no reason to check anything out did not help, it only added to the paranoia and fear the boy is feeling.

 

Peter feels Stiles try to yank his wrist free, but he does not care. He cannot let the boy leave, for one, he does not know what could happen, he does not know who, or what, that person is, he does not know what they are capable of, and two, he cannot allow the boy to leave when his scent is still intermingled with that other mans. He will not let the boy leave, not until his scent mixes with Peter’s, and even then, he does not know if he will let him leave, if his wolf will let him leave. Peter feels Stiles’ honey colored eyes on him, and he can hear the way Stiles’ heart beats faster with each passing second. Peter knows he is causing the boy to panic, but he does not know what to say, what to do. It seems like this has been a recent occurrence since Peter bit the now shaking boy in front of him. He would find himself speechless due to this young, high school boy, he would find himself _feeling_ , feeling something other than anger, rage, and despair. He would find himself _smiling, laughing_ , he would find himself feeling _happy_. He did not notice that each time he felt something good for once, that there was always one common denominator, and that one thing was Stiles. Stiles was the one to make him smile, to make him laugh, to make him happy, to make him forget the past.

 

Peter takes a deep breath, “You can’t leave, Stiles.”

 

Stiles looks down at Peter, confusion clear on his face. He does not understand why he cannot leave, he does not even understand why Peter is showing… concern?, if you can even call it that. He does not see why his leaving would cause a reaction like this to rise out of Peter, the older man hardly ever cares about if Stiles stays or goes, the only time is if it somehow benefits the man, but how does this moment benefit Peter?

 

Stiles opens his mouth, about to ask exactly why he cannot leave, when Peter pulls him down onto the couch, practically on top of the man. Stiles lets out a squeak, a _manly_ squeak, as his body collides somewhat softly into Peter’s. Stiles freezes as Peter begins to move him around, trying to get him in the right place, for what, Stiles is not sure.

 

Peter continues on his ministrations, completely ignoring the boys protests. Once Stiles is where he wants him to be, Stiles stradling Peter’s hips, with Peter’s arms around his midsection, essentially holding him in place, Peter leans forward and runs his nose up and down the side of the boys neck. Peter starts emitting a soft, low growl, practically a purr, as the boy tries to squeeze in on himself, trying to soothe the boy. He continues to scent mark the boy, running his large hands up and down the boys back, rubbing the light layer of stubble on his face up and down the boys neck, trailing one hand up to his face, tracing the moles dotting his jawline, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. He feels the boy slowly relax, leaning more into Peter as he continues the scent marking session, until eventually Stiles’ head is resting on his built chest. Peter raises a hand, leaving the other on the small of the boys back, and runs it through Stiles’ hair.

 

Stiles makes a humming sound as Peter runs his fingers through his hair. He moves down slightly, so he can nuzzle his face into the mans chest, and he feels Peter move his arms to wrap them around him. Stiles cannot stop the smile that stretches over his face, he may not know why Peter is doing this, or why he is acting like this, but, he does know he does not want it to stop.

 

Peter lets a small smile take over his face as the smell of Stiles’ contentment wafts through the air, and into his nose. Stiles has not smelt this happy in weeks, and Peter is ecstatic that he is the one to cause the boy to feel this way, that he is the one to hold the boy like this. A few minutes pass of Peter just holding the boy, his boy, to his chest, resting his head gently on top of his, and Stiles’ breathing begins to deepen, and he begins to move around less. Once Peter is sure that he is asleep, he presses a very gentle kiss onto the his boys head.

 

Before he lets himself slip into his own sleep, feeling extremely content with Stiles in his arms, he whispers, “I want you to stay, Stiles. I want you to stay with me.”

 

Derek has been listening the whole time from his room upstairs, and he had never been more shocked in his life, but not because his uncle is capable of feelings, but that he missed it. He missed the way Peter would look at Stiles with this look specifically reserved for the boy, a mix between fond, and something that Derek has not seen from his uncle in years, love. Derek is under the impression that Peter does not know he is in love with the pale, skinny, spark, but the fact that Peter is in love with the boy makes him think that Peter might be turning back into the man he was before the fire, or at least better than he was just a few days ago. At this point, Derek will take anything.

 

As Derek continues to lay on his bed, he realizes something. When Peter told Stiles that he wanted him to stay with him, Stiles’ heartbeat sped up. He gets off the bed, and rushes, quietly, but quickly out of his room and down the stairs. He gets to the edge of the staircase just in time to hear Stiles’ heartbeat even out, but still fast, breathing faster than normal, and see his eyes flutter shut.

 

\-----------

 

Malachi has been trailing after the Hale nephew, and Stiles for the past few minutes. He does not know where they are going, but he also does not really care, he is just happy to be near the boy again. It has been a few days since he has seen him, and Malachi has to say that he has never looked better. The two of them walk into a grocery store, so mundane, and he cannot be bothered to follow them inside, so he decides to wait until they exit to approach his boy. It takes a few long, agonizing minutes before they exit the store, and when they do, he slowly approaches them, finally letting them be able to sense and smell him.

 

Once he does this he immediately sees his boy tense up, and he sees the Hale boy’s eyes glow blue, his eyes connecting with Malachi’s. Derek let's out a snarl, and takes a quick step in his direction, making him roll his eyes at the man's childish antics. But, before he can even get near Malachi, Stiles throws a hand out in front of Derek, making him stop in his steps. The two of them share a look, before Stiles finally looks at Malachi.

 

Malachi lets a large smile creep over his face, so wide that it could split his face in two. “Well, it is so great to see you again, dear boy.”

 

He watches as the boy cringes, “I wish I could say the same, but I would be lying.”

 

“Oh,” Malachi says with a pout, “You wound me so, Stiles.”

 

Stiles glares at him, “What do you want?”

 

Malachi’s smile widens even further, if that is even possible, “I want to make a deal.”

 

He watches as Derek steps forward again, “What deal do you want to make with him?”

 

Malachi glares at Hale, “I was not talking to you, now was I?” He clears his throat dramatically before speaking, “Now, Stiles, do you know how easily I could just kill someone, some random, some very innocent person?”

 

Stiles just stares at him, eyes widening slightly, “No? Well, how about I show you?”

 

Without hesitation, Malachi taps into his weretiger super speed, and speeds over to Derek, and wraps a clawed hand around his neck, and slams him into the alleyway brick wall. He squeezes the man's neck tighter causing Derek to struggle, making Malachi laugh, “Oh, don't you know that werewolves are no match for a tiger, hm? Well you do now.”

 

Malachi turns and faces Stiles, his eyes glowing bright orange, yellow, “Now, here's my deal. I will not kill your friend here, but only if you agree to come with me. And, if you don't come with me, well, I think you know what will happen.” He squeezes Derek's neck impossibly tighter, to the point that he knows he is cutting off his air supply.

 

Malachi keeps his eyes on the boy, watching as sparks begin flying from his fingers, and as his eyes glow their beautiful bright green. He smiles as he _smells_ Stiles give in, as Stiles agrees to his terms, “Okay, okay, just please let him go.”

 

As a man of his words, he does just that, he lets go of Derek's neck and steps towards Stiles. “Right now, I want you to come with me right now, boy.”

 

Derek, leaning against the wall, tries to move towards them, but he practically collapses into the wall, “Stiles, don't you dare.” The man wheezes out.

 

Malachi watches as Stiles looks down at Derek with a look he for once, cannot quite decipher, “I'm sorry, Derek, but I have to.”

 

With that, the boy turns around to face Malachi, barely looking up at him, and says in a quiet, resigned voice, “I'll do it.”

 

\------------

 

“He took him, he took Stiles.”

 

Peter's head shoots up, “What? Who took him?”

 

Derek pants out, “Malachi, the shapeshifter, the weretiger.”

 

Everything clicks into place for Peter. The man following Stiles is a weretiger, no wonder they never saw him, or smelt him, and only Stiles could sense him. Peter feels so stupid, he has been trying to figure out how this man could be everywhere, but never be found. How he could be following Stiles, but never leave a scent. There are just so many variables that are finally in place, and Peter has never felt like such an idiot in his life. And oh god, Malachi has Stiles. Stiles who has just began gaining control over his powers, Stiles who has just began to forgive Peter, Stiles… Stiles who is his.

 

Peter lets out a loud growl and flings the stool that he was sitting on across the room, and looks over at Derek, who still has fingerprint marks on his neck, “Where. Did. He. Take. Him?”

 

“We were outside the grocery store, this was the first time I could smell him. I can find him.” Derek says, standing up straighter.

 

“Then lets find him.”

 

\-------------

 

It takes them a while, much longer than Peter would have liked, almost a full twenty-four hours, but they have finally done it. Derek has led them, Peter and Jackson to this old abandoned warehouse, on the very outskirts of town. At this point, Peter has never wanted to kill anyone more than he has now. Peter has been on edge since the minute Derek ran in and told him Stiles was missing, and he feels even more on edge than he was minutes ago. He knows he is driving the other two crazy, and that he has been for the past almost day, but he also knows that they are worried about the boy too, and that they will also do whatever they need to, to get him back.

 

\-----------

 

Stiles slowly opens his eyes, and he is met with complete and utter darkness. Stiles is confused, because the last thing he can remember is walking next to Malachi, and then nothing. He tries to use his magic to figure out where he is, or who is near him, but it is like his magic is tired, and unable to do anything really right now. This makes him worry immensely, if his magic is not working, then he is practically useless, he cannot do anything, he is nothing without his magic.

 

He can hear heavy footsteps coming near the room he is in, and his heart immediately speeds up. He wants to know where he is, but he does not want whoever that is to come in here. The door swings open, and light floods the room. He takes in as much of his surroundings as he can, and this is when he realizes that he is chained to a chair in a bedroom. Stiles struggles, trying to get out of the handcuffs, but it is without avail, it does nothing for him, it just hurts his wrists. Stiles looks up only to see Malachi looking down at him, with a small smile on his face.

 

“I'm so happy that you're awake! Now we have so much time together.” Malachi says, walking over to Stiles, and turning the lamp next to him on.

 

“What do you want with me?” Stiles asks, whispering.

 

“Well, I want you of course, isn't that obvious?”

 

Malachi leans in closer to Stiles, “I want you as my mate, dear boy.”

 

Stiles feels like he is going to cry, “M-mate?”

 

Malachi smiles wide, “Oh yes! My mate!” He sits down on the bed across from Stiles, “There is a myth that werewolves, and other weres have mates, and it is partially true. But, they are not born with them. Instead, they have to find someone and chose for themselves who they want as a mate.” Stiles gulps, he does not want to be this guys mate, first of all, this is the first time he is hearing of mates, and second of all, Malachi is crazy if he thinks he can force him to be his mate.

 

“Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking that I cannot force you to become my mate, but oh, I can. It is quite simple, I just need to bite your wrist, and then I can force you to bite mine. It is as simple as that, dear boy.” Malachi says, raising a hand and brushing his knuckles across his cheek, “And I cannot wait until you are my mate.”

 

\---------

 

When Peter, Derek, and Jackson barge I to the warehouse, it is almost as if it is too easy. There is no one standing guard, there is no one running after them. There is nothing. The three of them look around, trying to figure out which door to go through, because they cannot smell, or hear anything. Peter lets out a quiet groan, he is feeling ansty. He wants to find Stiles now, he wanted to find the boy hours, and hours ago.

 

“Guys, I think I heard something.” Jackson says from far down a hallway all the way to the side of the building.

 

Without hesitation, the three men run down the hallway, stopping every other minute or so to try to hear something,  anything. But, it is not until they are at the very end, next to the very last door in the hallway that they finally hear something. Peter kicks down the door when he hears a loud thud, like a body hitting the ground. The door falls to the ground with a clank, and what he sees makes him feel the proudest he has ever felt. Stiles is standing there, melted handcuffs around his wrists, and eyes glowing the brightest he has ever seen them.

 

Malachi is laying on the floor, unmoving, and it is not until Peter steps into the room that he notices that the man is not breathing. He whips his head to look over at Stiles, who is just staring down at the dead body, not blinking. Peter steps forward towards the boy, and motions for Derek and Jackson to take care of the body, to get it out of here. The two of them rush into action, lifting the body and dragging it out of the room, leaving Peter alone with Stiles.  

 

“Hey, sweet boy.”

 

Stiles immediately turns towards Peter, seemingly shocked that he is there. The words that come out of the boy's mouth break Peter's heart, “I killed him.”

 

Peter immediately brings Stiles into his embrace, pulling him in close, “I know, but, you protected us, you saved everyone.”

 

“I did?” Stiles hugs him back tightly, hanging on for dear life, and for the first time, Peter does not flinch from the intense heat coming from the boy's hands.

 

“Yes, yes you did.”

 

\----------

 

Stiles is glad that he finally has a day all to himself. Not that he is not glad that him and Peter, and the rest of the pack have finally reconciled, but Peter has been non-stop by his side, which he loves, but only for a certain amount of time, because sometimes, sometimes he just needs a minute to breathe. It has been days since he finally got rid of, killed, Malachi, but, he still feels like there is another shoe to drop, like something bad is about to happen. It keeps him on edge, constantly looking around, much like when Malachi first showed up, first made his presence known. Stiles knows that they are safe, well, as safe as they can be in a place like Beacon Hills, but there is this little voice that is just reading its ugly head, screaming that there is something coming. And no matter what he does, he cannot get rid of it.He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, knowing that worrying about it, about something he cannot see, will only cause him more panic.

 

He exits his room, and makes his way down stairs, to wait for Chris in the living room. After Stiles had recovered enough, he requested that Chris train him to fight, to protect those around him, and himself. Stiles likes training with Chris, not only does it help him become stronger, but it also gets him out of his head. It helps him almost forget all the things going wrong in his life. It helps him be able to step away from whatever panic he his feeling that day, even if it is just for an hour, and lets him relax in a way that he never had been able to. Stiles has only been doing this for a few days, but, he does not think he has ever felt this strong in his whole life, mentally and physically.

 

He walks over to the fridge, and pulls it open. He sighs as be takes in the contents of the appliance, it is almost bare, not even a measly water bottle to be found. This is one of the things Stiles is able to step away from when he trains, the lack of his father's presence in his life. He does not know what happened, it is almost like Stiles does not even exist to this man. His dad is never around, and when he his, he stays for all of a minute, and rushes out the door, without so much of a ‘goodbye’ in Stiles’ direction. The man is taking the phrase ‘married to my job’ to a whole different level.

 

Stiles slams the fridge door shut as he hears a knock on the door. He thinks it is a little strange, because Chris has not knocked on the door since the first time he picked Stiles up for training. On the way to the door, Stiles lets himself become more in-tune with his magic, and this is when he notices that it is not Chris at the door, but two strangers. His magic is almost bouncing out of his skin, almost like it is panicking, this sets off an alarm in Stiles’ head. He stops when he is right in front of the door, when he is here, he can tell that they are werewolves, but not just any wolves, they are alphas. Stiles almost jumps away from the door, because there should not be another alpha here, let alone two, and if there were, then Peter and have said something. Speaking of Peter, he has not heard anything from the man for a couple of days. This raises more alarms, Stiles’ brain immediately going for the worst possible scenario, that Peter is dead. His heart speeds up, along with his breathing, causing his magic to flare up, reacting to his emotions. The thought of Peter being dead causes Stiles to almost loose control, instead of sparks coming from his hands, it is balls of fire, little flames in the palms of his hands. He shakes his hands out, trying to diminish the flames, when he hears one of the alphas speak.

 

“We know you're in there, Stiles.”

 

Stiles stares intently at the door, trying to figure out who it is, his spark unable to identify who they are. He does not know what to do, he knows they are alphas, and he is pretty sure that if he goes for his phone that they will barge inside. But, if he does not go out there, they will still come in anyway. He sighs, having made his decision, and reaches into his pocket, reaching for his phone. The second that he has the phone out of his pocket the door handle begins to twist. Stiles knows he does not have much time, if any, and he clicks the first name that pops up. It is still ringing as the door clicms, signaling that it is being opened. The door creaks as it is pushed open slowly, and Stiles grips his phone tighter, heart racing, pounding so loud and hard that he can hear it in his ears. Stiles finally hears the man's deep voice, making him breathe out a breath of relief, even as the door is still opening.

 

“Stiles, I am almost there, what's wrong?”

 

“Chris,” The door slams open, creating a dent in the wall where it hits the wall. “I don't be here when you get here, you're going to have to find me.”

 

Stiles hangs up the phone and looks up at the two men. They are very clearly twins, and both are very large in stature. Both much broader than Stiles and slightly taller than him. With the twins being this close, his magic jumps into action, trying to figure them out, this is when he realizes that he has met them before, well, he has felt them before. They were there when he first met Malachi, when Malachi had hurt Peter, he felt traces of them on his skin, When Malachi started following him to the school, his home, the loft, everywhere, he felt them all those times too. Stiles feels dread creep underneath his skin, how had he not have know? How has he missed them all this time, they were there the whole time?

 

“Hello, Stiles,” one of the twins says, “my name is Aiden, and this is my brother Ethan.” Ethan and Aiden lengthen their fangs, and extend their claws. “And, you're coming with us.” The last thing Stiles sees before a complete and total darkness are two sets of glowing red eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is the first time I've written something like this, so it would be great if you would leave some feedback!  
> You can find me on Tumblr at: alexandra-bender  
> Thanks again for reading!


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